


Straddle The Line, In Discord And Rhyme

by mardia



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M, Harlan Thrombey Lives, Marriage of Convenience, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26625757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: It’s not until Marta picks up the medical bag that she notices that something is wrong.She can hear Harlan still singing upstairs in the attic, just like she can hear everyone downstairs getting ready for bed, just like she can smell Walt’s cigarettes, the incense Joni is burning in her room, a thousand different things her senses are picking up that Marta has learned to ignore, learned to put to one side.But this--this Marta can’t ignore.Because it’s Ransom’s scent lingering in the room, Ransom’s Tom Ford cologne lingering in a room he has no reason to be in, and as Marta lifts the bag to her nose and takes a careful sniff of the handles--it’s Ransom’s scent, human sweat and pheromones and man-made perfume lingering on a medical bag he has no reason to be touching in the first place.
Relationships: Harlan Thrombey/Marta Cabrera's Mother, Marta Cabrera & Harlan Thrombey, Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 204
Kudos: 622





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, as you can probably tell from the tags, this fic...goes places, lol. Content note for Marta's mother's undocumented status being discussed/being a plot point, but to be clear: at no point is she deported or in acute danger of being deported in the story. 
> 
> Title comes from Duran Duran (I'm sure you can guess which song).

It’s not until Marta picks up the medical bag that she notices that something is wrong. 

She can hear Harlan still singing upstairs in the attic, just like she can hear everyone downstairs getting ready for bed, just like she can smell Walt’s cigarettes, the incense Joni is burning in her room, a thousand different things her senses are picking up that Marta has learned to ignore, learned to put to one side. 

But this--this Marta can’t ignore.

Because it’s Ransom’s scent lingering in the room, Ransom’s Tom Ford cologne lingering in a room he has no reason to be in, and as Marta lifts the bag to her nose and takes a careful sniff of the handles--it’s Ransom’s scent, human sweat and pheromones and man-made perfume lingering on a medical bag he has no reason to be touching in the first place. 

“Marta?” Harlan calls down. “Everything all right?”

“I,” Marta stumbles, before calling back, “I just need a minute!”

“No getting out of the game, Marta!” Harlan calls back merrily, reassured, because he’s not like Marta--he won’t be able to tell from her heartbeat that she’s lying. 

Humans can’t hear someone’s heartbeat, not like she can. 

Her hands trembling, Marta carefully opens her bag and jerks back, because Ransom’s scent is all over this too--on the plastic baggies, on the meds that she should be giving Harlan tonight. For one moment, Marta still hopes for a reasonable explanation, that maybe he was drunk and bored and curious--

Except that Ransom was stone-cold sober when he left, Marta remembers that. Sober and furious with Harlan. But not furious enough to...he couldn’t have been angry enough to…

And yet, when Marta picks up the vial that’s marked as Toradol, when she shakes it, when she smells it--it’s not Toradol. It’s the morphine, in the wrong vial. 

If she’d been an ordinary, human nurse, if she hadn’t been paying attention, if she’d just trusted the labels and not her own senses, her own instincts--Harlan would have died in ten minutes. 

Oh God. 

Instinctively, Marta looks for the Naloxone, which is part of the kit, which is supposed to be there--and it’s gone. It’s gone, the drugs are in the wrong vials, and Ransom Drysdale’s scent, his hands have been all over this. 

He did this. He did this to kill his grandfather, and use Marta as a tool to do it. 

Marta’s hands tighten around the vials, so hard that she hears a faint crack, and then, worse, she hears Harlan making his way down the stairs, calling out her name.

Marta inhales sharply, and then she deliberately drops the vials on the ground, smashing them, and she calls out, theatrically, “Oh--oh, no, I dropped them!” 

Thank God, thank God, Harlan accepts her harried explanation of the vials being dropped, and her insistence that the drugs have been contaminated, that they won’t be safe to use tonight. “But I can run to the pharmacy, they’ll have more.” And to the point, they’ll have drugs that haven’t been tampered with. 

God. 

Harlan, thankfully, isn’t too upset--though he does insist that they’ll still be playing Go before the night is through. “It’s my birthday, Marta, we aren’t breaking tradition on my birthday.”

“Fine,” Marta concedes. “We won’t break tradition. But first, I’m getting you your medication.”

She still hesitates before going downstairs, blurting out, “Harlan--there’s no way up to your rooms aside from the main staircase, right?”

Harlan actually looks pleased. “Oh ho--you’ve noticed the trick window, then, have you?”

“Trick window?” Marta repeats, weakly. 

Harlan waves her over to a hidden passageway, and Marta’s breathing goes unsteady as she looks out the window, to the darkness of the grounds outside. 

It’s possible for someone to get in this way. It’s possible for a human to get in this way, someone with horrible intentions, someone who wanted to _hurt_ Harlan--

“Harlan,” Marta says, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. “Harlan, please tell me there’s a way to lock this so no one can actually get in.”

“Well, there’s space for a padlock,” Harlan says, slowly. “The architect insisted on it, when I had them put it in.”

“Good. Let’s get a padlock for it then,” Marta tells him. Harlan opens his mouth to say something, and Marta gives him a look. “Harlan, please. For me.”

Harlan looks at her for a long moment, then smiles. “For you, my dear, anything.”

Marta sighs in relief. She doesn’t leave Harlan until she sees him put the padlock on, key in his pocket, and then she quickly races down the stairs, calling out, “I’ll be back soon,” to Walt, still smoking on the porch. 

For once in her life, Marta speeds as much as possible on the way to the pharmacy, cajoling her car to go faster than 55 miles per hour. Through some miracle, she’s not pulled over by the cops, and makes it to the 24-hour pharmacy and paces in front of the counter until the drugs are dispensed. 

She goes just as fast on the way back, using her key to get in and going up the stairs as quietly as she can, but wincing with every creak, but it doesn’t matter, not when she can hear Harlan’s heartbeat, steady and strong, when she knows he’s still alive and waiting for her upstairs. 

He has the Go board set up for them in the attic, and holds up a finger as she comes in. “Ah ah, no complaints--it’s tradition, remember?”

“Yeah,” Marta says, her throat tight and her eyes stinging. “Of course it is.” Harlan’s expression turns quizzical, and before he can notice something’s wrong, Marta makes herself laugh and say next, “Hope you’re ready to lose on your birthday.”

They play two games, and Marta wins them both. 

*

It’s a new moon that night, which means that it’s no trouble at all for Marta to park her car out in the grounds, turn off the engine, and stay up all night, just in case that Ransom might appear.

If Marta had any doubts about what Ransom had done--what he tried to do--they all disappear when she hears the roar of his Beemer approaching, when she hears him get out of the car and start walking on foot to the house. 

Her heart pounding, Marta carefully gets out of the car, ready to lay chase--she has no intention of shifting all the way, but her teeth are still lengthening, her body’s ready to run--and then the dogs, God bless them, start barking, and she hears Ransom curse, lowly, and turn back in the direction he originally came. 

Marta exhales, and slips back inside her car, and waits until even she can’t hear Ransom’s car anymore before starting her own car engine, and driving herself home. 

*

All her life Marta has known the rules. Be careful with humans, but don’t let yourself get close to them. Never share any secrets, not yours or your pack’s. 

“You have to be careful, mija,” her mother cautioned her as a child, in the hours before the full moon would rise, when Marta was thrumming with energy, just wanting to move, to shift, to feel herself running free under the moonlight. “We all have to be so careful.”

And Marta is careful, she always has been.

But keeping her secrets, her family’s secrets, knowing she can never share them with humans, that doesn’t stop her from being fond of humans, from wanting to help people. It doesn’t stop her from caring about Harlan, someone who is her employer but also someone who needed a friend. 

And Marta became his friend, without meaning to. 

Now he’s in trouble, and even though Marta still needs to be careful...she’s not going to abandon him now. 

*

Before Marta starts her day at Harlan’s, she makes the drive out to Ransom’s house. 

“God, of course he lives here,” Marta mutters to herself as she carefully parks her car, eyeing the modernist design and glass walls of Ransom’s house with disdain. Easier for her to focus on architectural design than to consider what she’s about to do, what she’s about to say, and who she is saying it to.

But this needs to be done, and Marta is the one who has to do it. 

Her resolve pushing her forward, Marta gets out of her car, marches up to the front door and rings the doorbell. When no one answers right away, she leans on it again, until she can hear Ransom stirring at last, the heavy tread of his footsteps approaching the door. 

Ransom opens the door and gives her a baffled look, leaning against the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

Marta lifts her chin. “I need to talk to you.”

His eyebrow goes up. “Do you now. What, you came here to gloat?”

Marta has no idea what he’s talking about, and her confusion must show on her face; as Ransom scoffs and goes, “Oh, what, Granddad didn’t spill the news?”

“Your grandfather hasn’t told me anything,” Marta says coolly. “Last night, when I went to get my medical bag to give your grandfather his usual medication, I noticed something odd.”

All the emotion slides off Ransom’s face, and his heartbeat starts to thunder in Marta’s ears. 

Marta looks at him squarely. “I was checking the medication--because I’m very cautious with that, of course--and it’s the funniest thing. Somehow, it looks as though the meds were switched.”

“Switched,” Ransom repeats. 

“Mm. There’s the slightest difference between them, of course, in smell and in weight--nothing that an ordinary person would notice, but still, I did. And to make matters worse, the Naloxone was missing too.”

Ransom tilts his head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s an antidote,” Marta tells him. “It’s what I would use to save someone who had overdosed on morphine or any other opioid. Which, of course, if I hadn’t noticed the meds being wrong--if I’d given your grandfather, Harlan, the wrong dosage of morphine and if I hadn’t had the Naloxone on hand...God, I don’t even want to think about what would have happened.”

“Yeah, that would be horrible,” Ransom says, his voice flat, his face blank. 

Marta is finding it harder and harder, keeping a leash on her own temper. She clenches her hands at her side, but lifts up her chin and says, “What a good thing, then, that I noticed, and I was able to get a new prescription that wasn’t tampered with. And to get another bottle of Naloxone.”

“Might want to think about switching pharmacies,” Ransom says. “Incredible, the mistakes people can make.”

“Hmm,” Marta says. She pauses, and then leans in to overtly sniff the air in front of her. “Are you still wearing your cologne from last night?”

Ransom has done a remarkable job holding up his poker face--for a human--but he jerks back at that, surprised. “My what? My cologne?”

“I noticed it last night,” Marta says. “Did you know that it tends to linger, long after you’ve left the room. Even after you stormed out last night...I kept smelling it around the house. Even upstairs in Harlan’s bedroom.”

All the pretence is gone from Ransom now, and he’s staring at Marta like he’s imagining wrapping his hands around her throat. 

He’d have a harder time trying than he knows. 

Marta gives him a large smile, filled with teeth. “Just thought I would mention it. Have a good morning, Ransom.”

Satisfied in her warning, if nothing else, Marta turns to leave, and then Ransom says, reaching out for her arm, “Hey, hang on a minute, what are you--”

The second that his hand clamps around her wrist, Marta moves, striking out and taking Ransom’s arm and twisting it up behind his back, forcing him to kneel, ignoring his exclamations of pain and surprise. 

“Ow! Jesus, what the fuck?”

“Don’t _ever_ grab me like that again,” Marta spits out, furious and no longer obligated to hide it. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know what you tried to do last night to Harlan?”

“I think you’re goddamn crazy, is what I think!” Ransom retorts, and Marta tightens her grip. “Ow, fuck!” Ransom yelps. “Fuck’s sake, let _go_ of me--you don’t have a shred of evidence for whatever it is you’re implying! If you did, you’d have called the cops by now.”

Marta spares half a second to think of the unfortunately-broken vials, but saving Harlan last night had been the priority. Is still the priority. 

“I don’t need evidence to know the truth about what you are,” Marta says, low in Ransom’s ear. He jerks away and tries to pull out of her grip, but Marta just holds on tighter, keeping him put. It’s not hard, for all of Ransom’s big muscles and his height, he’s still human, and Marta is very much not. “This time, I’m giving you a warning. Next time, I won’t be so kind. Stay away from my medical bag, and stay away from Harlan.”

She lets him go with a hard shove, and before Ransom can get up, before Ransom can try and turn on her--not that it would do him much good, Marta’s reflexes are much better than his--Marta is stepping back, walking away to her car without bothering to turn around. 

Ransom watches her leave the entire time, still sprawled out over his front step as Marta drives away. 

*

“Fran, can I talk to you for a second?”

It takes Fran a moment to notice Marta, with her music blaring in her ears; she jumps when she catches sight of Marta at last, taking out one of her earbuds as she says, “Shit, Marta, you scared me!”

“Sorry,” Marta apologizes. It’s still hard for her to gauge what humans notice, with their weaker senses. “But Fran, do you have a minute?”

Fran blinks, but sets down the rag she’s using to polish the animal statues scattered around the library. “Sure thing, what’s up?”

Marta had thought long and hard before bringing Fran into this. What settled it for her was that, for all of Fran’s chattiness, she did love Harlan, and she hated Ransom. If anyone was going to believe Marta, it would be her. 

“Oh, that fucker,” Fran spits out once Marta is done giving a (mostly unedited) version of last night’s events. “I can’t believe this!”

“Yeah, it’s unbelievable all right,” Marta agrees. “Fran, listen, I warned Ransom this morning, but if he doesn’t listen--”

“Wait, you did what?” Fran asks, surprised. So then Marta has to explain about her visit to see Ransom this morning, and by the time she’s finished, Fran’s mouth is hanging open and her eyes are shining with glee. 

“Oh my God, I would kill for video of you Hulking out on that asshole!” Fran gushes. “Was there video? Did you have a dashcam recording?”

“No, sorry,” Marta says, pushing back inappropriate laughter at Fran’s disappointed face. “But Fran, we still have a problem. I smashed the vials, which means there’s no evidence--”

“And without evidence, you can’t say anything,” Fran finishes, realizing the issue. “The cops will never take you seriously, and Linda and Richard will go ballistic if you accuse their precious baby boy of anything.”

“But we still have to do something,” Marta presses. “What if we talked to Harlan about the security around the house? Getting upgrades.”

Fran grimaces. “I mean, Proofroc can barely even handle working a VCR,” she says. “But maybe. At least a fence to stop people from getting in through the back.”

“And if Ransom comes back to the house--”

“We’ll watch him like hawks,” Fran says, nodding vigorously. “And I definitely am not letting him anywhere near the kitchen.”

“And I’m locking up my medical bag,” Marta says firmly. 

Fran nods in approval, and then pauses. “Are you going to tell Harlan?” she asks, in a hushed tone. 

Marta swallows. “I don’t know how,” she confesses, and instead of judging her, Fran just nods in sympathy. 

*

There’s something ironic in that while Fran and Marta are anxiously plotting over Harlan’s safety, Harlan is in a better mood than ever. 

Clearing the air with so many of his family members seems to have unleashed something in him. Even though Marta’s not around for the follow up discussions with Walt, or the painful revelations that Harlan has to break to Linda about the state of her marriage, Harlan still emerges from it all with a lightness to him. 

With Walt gone from the company, though, Harlan is having to spend more and more time dealing with the practical concerns of Blood Like Wine--finalizing contracts with audiobook narrators, getting back to his long-standing editor about the latest edits to his manuscript, answering requests from libraries and local bookstores about giving talks or lectures, not to mention the basic work of writing itself. 

And more and more, Marta is helping him with the business. 

At first it’s just handling the phone calls that come in--with Walt gone, there are a lot of people with questions and concerns, and Harlan’s nonchalance is impressive, but not exactly reassuring for people who need to pay their own bills on time. When Marta gently points that out, Harlan becomes thoughtful, and before Marta quite knows what’s happening, she’s the one on the phone with Harlan’s editors and distributors, reassuring them that no, Harlan isn’t retiring, yes, Harlan is as committed to Blood Like Wine as he’s always been. 

It could be frustrating, Marta tossed into the deep end of the pool like this, especially even though this isn't technically her job--but Marta finds that she enjoys it, fitting all the puzzle pieces together. It feels like...like playing a game of Go, a pattern emerging in front of her, anticipating what will come next and what her next move will have to be.

It also helps that Harlan's given her a raise to match all the new work she's doing, and that he's so delighted with her efforts.

And still...he's up to something. Whenever Marta presses him on hiring a replacement for Walt, a real replacement rather than the two of them muddling along for the next month or so, Harlan always demures, citing the demands on his time, the manuscript that's due, his hatred of job interviews, blah blah blah.

His excuses are paper-thin, and not just because Marta knows all the tells he gives when he's lying. "What are you up to, Harlan?" Marta finally asks him, straight out. "It feels like you're plotting something."

"Me?" Harlan asks, placing a hand to his chest. "Marta, I have no idea what you're referring to."

Marta rolls her eyes at this pathetic attempt at innocence. "Harlan."

"I'm as pure as the driven snow!"

"Between pollution and dogs peeing everywhere, snow is disgusting and you know it," Marta replies.

"I'm affronted by your lack of trust, Marta," Harlan retorts, veering from bewilderment to mock-indignation. "Affronted!"

"Don't make me get the belt, abuelo," Marta warns, and Harlan's low chuckles are his only reply.

Harlan doesn't reveal what he's been up to until a week later, when Marta is fussing over Excel spreadsheets (and watching Excel tutorials on YouTube) and he drops a small gray business card on her keyboard.

Marta lifts it up, peering at it closely. It says, _Vaughan, Jackson, Johnson, and Associates_ in gold lettering--it's a card for a law firm. She looks up at him and asks, doubtfully, "What, are you being sued?"

"No," Harlan says, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. "That's for you.”

"Am I being sued?"

Harlan sighs theatrically. "No, Marta. That is the name of one of the top law firms in Boston, one that specializes in immigration law."

Marta's head jerks up at that, and she stares up at him. "Harlan, we can't..."

"Yes, you can. With me footing the bills, you can. With my money getting you the best resources available, you can."

Marta shakes her head, disbelieving. "But you said it yourself. It's your money, your resources."

"At your family's disposal," Harlan says, gentle but implacable. "Marta, my dear girl, I have over sixty million dollars in the bank, never mind this great pile of a house or the company in my name. Let me use a small fraction of that money to do some good."

Her hearing's gone funny, and Marta realizes after a second that it's the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. "Harlan, for God's sake, you can't just...toss a card at me and tell me that all my family's problems will be solved!"

Harlan appears to consider this, and offers up, "Would you have preferred me to call a special business meeting to discuss it?"

Marta, who had just this Tuesday cheerfully bullied Harlan into a business meeting with his long-suffering editor, glares at him. 

Harlan just quirks an eyebrow at Marta, waiting, and Marta glances down again at the card, which she's been flipping back and forth between her fingers.

It feels thick and solid in her hands--expensive paper, the kind of paper you use when you have money and expect the people you're handing your card to to have money as well. 

Resources. 

Marta and her family don't have that. They have a lot of things, many of which they're grateful for--good health, a roof over their heads, food on the table. And ever since working for Harlan, Marta's learned to be grateful for her family--for a mother and sister that she can trust, that she can talk to without vitriol and passive-aggressiveness shading each word. But they don't have the kind of resources that Harlan has.

Except that now Harlan's offering them to her. To her family.

Marta lifts her head, still holding the card. "I need to talk to my mother," she says firmly. "With this administration...with this country the way it is right now," she says, taking a breath, the old panic clenching her stomach even as she says it out loud. "...trying to change things could make things worse for her. It's a risk to try, and it's not something I'm going to do without her making the call."

Harlan's nodding. "Of course, of course."

Marta points her finger at him. "And if she says no, Harlan, then that's it, okay? No browbeating, no arguments. It's her life, and it's our family, and we get to make the call on this, not you."

Harlan holds up his hands. "I wouldn't expect anything else," he says, grandly, and his heartbeat is steady and his breathing calm. 

He's telling the truth, and that helps Marta to relax, to see the possibilities, to look at this with even a little bit of hope instead of fear and worry. 

"Harlan," Marta says. "Thank you."

Harlan smiles back at her, dipping his head in a nod of acknowledgment. "You're welcome."

*

It's not often that her mother is shocked into actual silence, but this has managed to do it.

But then she inhales, and says in disbelief, "Your boss wants to do _what?_ "

And like that, Marta's mother is off. Marta does her best to field the nine million questions--why is Harlan doing this? What does this mean? What firm are they talking about? Just how much money is he willing to pay? _Why_ is he doing this?

It's that last question that her mother repeats the most, sharp and anxious, and finally, Marta hits on an explanation. 

"He's lonely, Mama. His family are all awful, he's approaching the end of his life with too much money and too few ideas of what to do with it. I think...I think he wants to do something good."

Her mother's mouth is pursed, but her eyes keep darting to the card, resting on top of the kitchen table. 

"This firm is legit," Alice offers up from where she's browsing on her laptop. "It's owned by three black women, they do a ton of pro-bono work in the county, and all three of them speak Spanish--"

"Oh, well if they speak Spanish," her mother says sarcastically, but Marta knows an opening when she hears it. 

"Just one meeting," Marta coaxes. "What can it hurt?"

Her mother looks at the card, and shakes her head. "Mija...hope can hurt plenty." But she reaches out to touch the gold lettering on the card gently, with just the tip of her hand, before shaking her head again. "One meeting. One!"

Marta beams at her mother, and Alice gives them all a thumbs-up. "I'll tell Harlan to set it up."

When she tells Harlan the next day that her mother is willing to consider it, Marta sees the widest, happiest smile she's seen on Harlan's face in a long time. 

*

If dealing with Harlan, her family, and her ever-increasing involvement in Blood Like Wine Publishing were the only things on Marta's plate, her plate would already be full.

But it's not, because unfortunately, Harlan isn't the only Thrombey with access to her phone number.

Walt is the worst, by far. He's forever filling up Marta's voicemail with cajoling messages, every message starting out the same, a quick query on how Harlan's doing, and then an abrupt pivot to the business, whether Harlan's running things still, if he's hired someone yet to replace Walt, and advice that he wants Marta to pass on. 

Joni is the other one who calls the most. She's more subtle than Walt, at least--her voice is always relaxed, her questions about Marta's well-being and health _sound_ sincere. And then, like clockwork, the conversation turns back to Joni, her worries for Meg's future, her concerns over the financial health of Flam, and then it veers off course into some social media drama that Marta can't even track, and then veers back into the reason for her call, which is a need for more money, whether it's for Meg or for herself, and how Marta can perhaps share her insight into 'where Harlan's head is at, you know? It's just so concerning, the way he's cutting himself off from everyone--"

"Harlan just did a book signing for a local bookstore," Marta interrupts, unable to listen to this any longer. "He stayed an hour past closing and took, like, a hundred selfies. He's _fine_ , Joni."

Joni's silence is affronted. "Just," Marta tries, "Just maybe give him a little space for now. Or find a new way to connect to him, relate to him."

But Marta's advice, well-meant as it is, does not go over well with Joni. Or so Meg tells her, when she calls a couple of days later.

"God, Marta, what did you say to Mom?" Meg asks, half-laughing. "She's so pissed off."

Marta groans. "I didn't say anything! I just pointed out that Harlan's not a shut-in or whatever she's imagining, he's keeping busy and doing fine, he's just not..."

"Paying for our upkeep," Meg finishes dryly. "Yeah, I can see how Mom didn't take that well." But Meg grows quiet, before asking next, "Marta...did Granddad tell you why he's doing all this? Cutting us out?"

Marta swallows. "What does your mother say?" she asks.

Meg snorts. "You know how Mom is, she won't ever get into specifics. She just keeps going on and on about a rift and negative energies and then she starts talking about which one of her crystals might do the trick and get Granddad to stop being so pissed off at us."

"He's not angry with you," Marta says, because that is true at least. Harlan doesn't seem angry with any of his family, just disappointed. "Listen, Meg...if you have questions about what Harlan is doing, the easiest way is to ask Harlan himself."

"I did," Meg protests, and Marta blinks in surprise. "But what he said doesn't make sense! There's no way my mom was double-dipping like that, she wouldn't ever try to...to _cheat_ Granddad out of anything."

"Oh, Meg," Marta says, the words slipping out despite herself. 

Meg's voice shifts. "Wait, you _believe_ him? You actually think my mom was stealing?"

Marta bites back her first response of _of course she was stealing from him_ and asks, very gently, "Did you ask your grandfather why he thinks she was...taking more than she needed?"

"I don't need to ask him because I know it's not true," Meg says, her voice becoming more frosty. "It's just an accounting mixup, Marta. If you ask me, Granddad needs to be looking at his accountants, clearly they're the ones who screwed up, not my mom."

There's not much point in arguing with Meg, and Marta doesn't try, simply going back to urging her to speak with her grandfather if she has concerns. When they eventually hang up, Meg is dissatisfied, and so is Marta. 

She's still looking at her phone with a faint sense of disquiet when Alice bursts into her room. “Marta, stop getting caught up in white people drama and come on, help me pick out something to wear for your _boss_.”

She waggles her eyebrows at the last part, and Marta groans, “He’s eighty-five, Alice, don’t be gross.”

“But it’s so easy to freak you out when I am!” Alice trills cheerfully as she leaves, knowing Marta will follow.

Despite telling her family there’s no reason to be nervous, Harlan isn’t a monster or anything, even Marta will admit to being nervous as they approach the Indian restaurant where they’re meeting Harlan and Mama’s new lawyer, D.C Vaughan. 

Harlan is already at their reserved table, tucked away in a quieter part of the restaurant with curtains providing even more privacy. Sitting with him is a pleasant black woman with a kind face, who smiles at them all as they approach.

Marta nervously makes the introductions. “Harlan, Ms. Vaughan, this is my mother Claudia and my sister Alice.”

Harlan bows his head as he offers his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Claudia, and you too, Alice.”

“Call me D.C,” D.C Vaughan says, smiling warmly as she shakes all their heads. “It’s so nice to meet you, Claudia.”

Harlan makes a point of pulling out their chairs for them as they all sit down, which has Marta smiling at him--he really is pulling out all the stops here.

Tonight isn’t a business meeting, really, just a chance for everyone to get to know each other better--and for Marta’s mother to feel more comfortable with going forward. To that point, it’s nice that D.C directs most of the conversation towards Marta’s mother, asking gentle questions about her job, about raising Marta and Alice, about her hobbies and friends.

Somehow that gets the conversation onto her mother’s love of Murder She Wrote and the Poirot adaptations with David Suchet , and Harlan perks up at that, and soon he has everyone enthralled with the time he went to London and ended up at dinner with David Suchet, who displayed the correct way of eating mangoes, which Suchet learned from the Duke of Edinburgh…

It’s an honestly surreal moment for Marta, watching her mother gushing with Harlan about Angela Lansbury and how she’s still angry to this day about the modern adaptation of The Manchurian Candidate--

Alice chooses this moment to point out, “But Mama, it had Meryl Streep! You can’t complain about a movie with Meryl Streep--”

“Of course I can, watch me,” their mother retorts, and Marta catches Harlan’s eye, and they grin at each other as her mother and Alice fall into the same old argument of who is the better actress, Angela Lansbury or Meryl Streep. D.C’s grinning too, and Marta says to her and Harlan in a low aside, “They’ve been having this argument for years now. No one ever wins.”

“ _I_ win,” her mother and Alice say, in unison, and then glare at each other before Alice gives up the pretense and bursts out into laughter as her mother huffs and waves her hand dismissively. 

“You see what I deal with?” she says to Harlan, and Harlan chuckles, but Marta sees the brief wistfulness that passes across his face. None of the Thrombeys have silly family jokes at the dinner table, Marta knows. 

Her mother notices too; she turns the conversation to Harlan’s work, asking about Blood Like Wine and saying, “Marta’s been enjoying helping you so much.”

“She gets excited about spreadsheets now,” Alice confides in a tone of mock-horror. “It’s so weird.”

Harlan laughs outright at this. “Well thank God for that, because I certainly don’t!”

Marta laughs in return and is about to reply, when something grabs her attention, taking away her focus from the people around the table, her hearing caught not by the conversation, but by the sound of a heartbeat across the crowded restaurant, the faint smell of a familiar cologne, the low sound of a familiar male voice saying, “I’ll just sit at the bar, thanks.”

Marta goes very stiff and still in her seat, and dimly she can sense her mother and sister noticing, coming to attention, but she can’t focus on that, not when there’s another predator in their midst, a threat for her to deal with. 

“Excuse me,” she says quietly, dropping her napkin on her seat as she gets up and leaves the table.

Ransom has his back to their table, which makes it child’s play to approach him, to clamp her hand on his broad shoulder, her fingers digging in, as she says levelly, “What are you doing here?”

Ransom jumps so far out of his seat that he nearly falls to the ground. “Jesus fuck!” he blurts out, blue eyes wide as he stares up at Marta.

It takes all of Marta’s determination to not grip his shoulder harder, to the point where it would hurt him. “What are you doing here, Ransom.”

Ransom is trying for his usual nonchalance, but he’s still too obviously startled by her sudden appearance to pull it off. “Just out here for a drink. This place makes a mean mango lassi.”

Marta breathes out through her nose, and pushes away the image of taking Ransom Drysdale by the scruff of the neck and physically throwing him out of the restaurant. She won’t stoop that low, she won’t lose her temper like that, she _won’t_. 

“Get your drink someplace else,” she tells him, very quietly. 

The bartender approaches, giving them both a wary eye as he asks, “Everything all right here?”

Marta gives him a sweet smile, even as she’s pressing her fingers into the meat of Ransom’s shoulder. “I’m fine. My friend here needs to go, though, but I’m happy to pay his tab.”

“Oh, you’ll pay my tab,” Ransom murmurs, disbelieving, but miraculously falls silent when Marta turns her head to glare down at him. “Nah, I’ve got it,” he says to the bartender, reaching into his wallet and tossing down a couple of bills. “Keep the change.”

Marta steps back to give him room to get up; once he’s standing up, Ransom looms over her again, all six feet of him, broad shoulders and bulky muscles he has thanks to his personal trainer and chef. 

Marta meets his gaze squarely. “Good night, Ransom.”

Ransom smirks back. “Night, Marta. Always a pleasure.”

“What a pity I can’t say the same,” Marta says. 

Ransom’s mouth twists, and he heads towards the exit, not bothering to look back. It’s not until Marta hears him walking away outside that she exhales and heads back to the table, knowing she’ll have questions to answer later on.

And sure enough, both her mother and Alice are giving Marta looks as she returns, having definitely overheard that conversation between her and Ransom and just as clearly wondering what’s going on. 

That will have to come for later though. For now, Marta contents herself with leaning in and saying to Harlan, “Harlan, I thought I would drive you back to the house, if that’s okay?”

Harlan doesn’t mind, saying, “Oh certainly, certainly.”

Marta leans back in her seat, relieved--she doesn’t think it’s likely, but if Ransom came here to try something, if he has a new awful plan to hurt Harlan, then Marta wants to make sure she sticks closely to Harlan tonight, sees him safely in the house. 

She sticks to the plan too, even if Alice takes the chance as they’re all saying their goodbyes to hiss into her ear, “Who was that guy you were fighting with?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Marta murmurs back, and hugs her mother, asking her quietly in Spanish, “So? How do you like them?”

Her mother pulls a face, but admits, “Fine, you were right, I like them.”

Marta beams, and when Harlan asks her later in the hired car, “Well?” she’s able to say, sincerely, “It was good. My mom likes D.C. And you.”

And the best part is that there’s no sign of Ransom for the rest of the night, not for the drive back to Harlan’s house and definitely not at the house, where Fran answers the door with a relieved smile on her face and a knowing glance to Marta. 

There’s no sign of Ransom anywhere near the house, not a hint of his scent or his heartbeat, and Marta’s shoulders slump in relief as she follows Harlan inside.

*

The next morning, Marta goes out for her early-morning jog before she heads back to Harlan’s place for work. For her, it’s one of her favorite parts of the day, a chance to stretch her muscles, feel the power in her body, get the extra energy out.

Luckily for her, Alice likes to take her jogs in the evenings after school, so she’s still sleeping and won’t be able to interrogate Marta further about Ransom’s appearance at the restaurant last night.

But Marta only travels a few blocks before she realizes she has company on her morning jog. Unwelcome company. Marta’s first response to sensing Ransom behind her is to whirl around and confront him, but instead she heads back towards town, increasing her pace just a little bit more. 

As Marta continues to look for a safe space to confront Ransom in private, her gaze lands on an abandoned laundromat. Marta abruptly turns to the right, and heads into the laundromat through the back entrance, breaking the lock as she enters. 

Marta stands in the center of the dirty, abandoned laundromat, and waits.

It doesn’t take long--Ransom hesitates at the door, his heartbeat quick in Marta’s ears, but slowly he comes in, pausing in the entryway as he sees Marta standing there, waiting for him.

Marta doesn’t bother waiting for him to speak first. “Why are you following me?”

Ransom is clearly thrown by all of this--Marta realizing he was following her, Marta leading him to an abandoned place to confront him—but his answer is full of bravado. “Thought we could have a nice little chat. I gotta admit, I was picturing someplace nicer than here. Does this place have rats?”

“Yes,” Marta says; she can hear them skittering in the walls.

Ransom pauses and looks at her, head tilted to one side. “You’re not scared.”

“No,” Marta agrees. “Should I be, Ransom?”

“Well, despite your absolutely batshit ideas about what I’ve been up to,” Ransom says, approaching her slowly, taking his time to ensure that Marta is aware of how much bigger and stronger he thinks he is, how vulnerable she should be in this moment, “We _are_ alone in this very deserted building.”

Marta shrugs. “I’m not worried.”

“You think I’m a murderer but you’re not worried about being alone with me right now?” Ransom asks, squinting at her, his face disbelieving.

“Well, you failed miserably the first time,” Marta replies easily. “So I don’t think I have much to worry about.”

Ransom chuckles, but she can see the anger in the clench of his jaw, in the glitter of his eyes. "You know I've got five inches and over a hundred pounds on you, right?"

Marta tilts her head, and then slaps Ransom across the face. She pulls nearly all of her strength back from the blow, but still the sound of the slap rings through the room.

While Ransom is feeling his stinging cheek, Marta tells him, coolly, "Like I said, I don't see much to be afraid of. And it’s four inches, at the most.”

Ransom strikes out with his hand, and Marta quickly blocks the blow with her forearm, and in the same moment strikes out with her free hand and slaps Ransom again. 

Ransom actually stumbles back a step for a second, and Marta feels a momentary spurt of panic--what if she hurt him, ruptured his eardrum or knocked loose a tooth--but she stiffens her spine and refuses to let it show. 

He tried to kill Harlan. He followed her today to try God only knows what, it's not Marta's fault that she's not the easy prey he was expecting.

Ransom’s breathing is heavier, his heartbeat has picked up, and Marta knows he’s going to charge her before he does it, lowering his head and running at her like he’s a bull, and Marta plants her feet and pivots just in time, reaching out and tossing him halfway across the space.

Ransom hits the ground with a loud thud, wheezing--she’s knocked the air out of him, it seems like. 

“Are you going to keep trying this crap, or are you going to come to your senses?” Marta asks.

“Fuck me,” Ransom groans, gingerly feeling his ribs. Marta’s not too worried, she didn’t hear them snap or give way, and his breathing is already settling down. “What the shit, are you on steroids or something?”

“Ransom,” Marta says loudly. “Focus. Are you going to keep following me and your grandfather around, or are you going to leave us both alone?”

Ransom looks up at that, his face twisted with anger. “Why, so you can slide in and steal everything from my family?”

“What are you talking about?” Marta asks, baffled. “Harlan’s helping my family with some legal matters, he spends more on first editions and knicknacks than he will on the fees for the lawyer.”

Ransom pauses and stares at her. “That’s...wait. What do you think I’m talking about?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, that’s why I asked,” Marta says. 

Ransom stares up at her. “Huh,” he says slowly.

Marta exhales. “Look,” she says. “I know you’re upset about Harlan cutting you off, or maybe you’re upset about your dad--”

Ransom laughs at this. “My dad has been cheating on my mother for years. This is just the first time he was sloppy enough to get caught by someone that wasn’t her.”

Marta ignores him and continues with, “--but you _cannot_ keep doing this. Trying to hurt Harlan? Following me around like some creep? I won’t let you do anything to Harlan, so you just...might as well go off and enjoy your trust fund and your fast car and leave Harlan alone.”

Ransom looks at her, his eyes scanning her face, as if he’s trying to take her in. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asks slowly. 

Because he can never hurt her. “Because I beat you already,” Marta says. “And I will beat you again, and again, until you finally move on and stop trying to hurt Harlan.”

Ransom’s body is rigid with tension right now, and Marta braces herself in case he tries to make another hopeless charge at her, but he doesn’t, he just keeps...looking up at her, anger and bewilderment in his face. 

It’s tiring to look at, in a way that the actual fight (if that’s what you can call it, it was very one-sided) never was. Marta nods at the door behind him and says, “You should leave now. Don’t bother trying to sneak up on me, I’ll know you’re there and I’ll just knock you to the ground again.”

Ransom snorts at this quietly, and carefully, slowly gets up to his feet. He doesn’t look back at Marta as he leaves, and Marta stands in the center of that empty building, and waits until she can’t hear his heartbeat in her ears anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot really gets going in this one, folks, so bear with me!

On one level, it's a good thing that Ransom Drysdale stops being Marta's biggest problem. On the other hand, it means Marta has much bigger problems to handle. 

Like the status of her mother's immigration case. 

Harlan eventually calls her out on it one afternoon, where for once Marta doesn't have work with Blood Like Wine and can theoretically relax with a novel while Harlan goes through the latest round of edits on his manuscript. 

"Marta," Harlan says, "As much as I also admire the slow evolution of relationships in _Gaudy Night,_ you haven't turned a single page in over ten minutes."

Marta startles at this, and then sighs and closes her book. "No, I haven't been able to focus," she admits.

"Anything on your mind?" Harlan asks.

Marta lifts a hand. "It's Mama's case," she says, without thinking, and as Harlan turns to look at her, shutting his laptop, she adds quickly, "And remember, Harlan, you're not going to try and force any decisions."

"Of course not, of course not," Harlan reassures. "But surely that doesn't mean I can't offer my advice, or hear you out."

Marta holds his gaze for a minute, but relents, explaining as she sinks into her chair. "It's just...D.C thinks that Mama's best chance is to leave the country, go back to Monterrey, and reapply for a visa again there."

She tries to say it as calmly as she can, but Harlan's outrage is immediate. "The hell sort of plan is that?" he demands, sitting up straighter in his seat. "What--self-deportation, who is she, Mitt Romney?"

Marta twists her hands in her lap. "If we could...if we could just believe that she'd be allowed to come back, but with things the way they are..."

"With that jackass in the White House," Harlan interjects.

"It's such a risk. But all of the other choices--and there aren't many--are risks too." Marta lifts up her hands helplessly. "Anyway. That's what's going on."

"Well, that's simply unacceptable," Harlan declares, reaching for the landline on his desk. "Absolutely absurd--what am I paying that firm for?"

Marta grimaces. "Harlan, please...it's not D.C's fault that this is the way it is."

"It’s not as if I’m going to fire her,” Harlan insists. "I'm simply asking some very pertinent questions!" At Marta's look, Harlan relents and says, more calmly, "Marta, I promise you I am not throwing a wrench into anything."

And to give him some credit, Harlan doesn't actually throw a tantrum when he gets ahold of D.C. Not that the conversation goes well--Harlan is outraged and indignant, D.C is getting increasingly exasperated, and Marta is wishing she could just snatch the phone out of Harlan’s hands.

"There simply must be another option!" Harlan insists for what must be the fifth time. Marta grimaces, but D.C's voice comes ringing through clearly on the other end. 

"Harlan, unless you're going to set up some green-card marriage, please step back and let me do my job and advise my client in the manner I see fit--”

"Wait, go back a second," Harlan says, a note of curiosity in his voice. "Would a marriage improve things?"

Marta sits up straight in her seat, and D.C warns, "Oh no. Harlan, absolutely not, that was a _joke_ , not a recommendation for Claudia to try and commit fraud--"

"Oh, of course not, of course not," Harlan says easily, but Marta can practically hear the wheels turning in his head, and so can D.C. “Still though—“

“No! No still!” D.C insists, agitated. 

“D.C, thank you as always for your sage advice, it’s most appreciated,” Harlan says, hanging up over D.C’s protests, and Marta says flatly, “Harlan, what are you going to do.”

Harlan sighs theatrically. “Marta, your suspicious nature is very disappointing to me.”

“Knock it off, abuelo,” Marta says. “If you think you’re going to hire some random nobody so they can marry my mother--”

“What kind of absurd plan is that?”

“The kind of absurd plan the man behind the _Deadly Trade_ trilogy would come up with,” Marta retorts, and Harlan grimaces. 

“My dear, I do wish you’d stop using that series as a trump card,” Harlan says, injured. “You know good and well I wrote that during the seventies. The LSD alone…” His hand flutters through the air, dismissive and regretful in the same pass. 

Marta doesn’t relent, folding her arms. “Harlan.”

Harlan sighs, exasperated, and holds up his hand. “Scout’s honor, I have no intentions of marrying your mother off to some random stranger with a US birth certificate.” He raises an eyebrow. “Satisfied?”

“No,” Marta says. “But it’ll have to do for now.”

“Hmph,” Harlan says, opening his laptop up again. Any hope that he’s dropped the topic for now is dashed when he adds, faux-casually, “Do you think your family would mind if I dropped in for dinner tonight? Just for a quick chat.”

Marta narrows her eyes at him, and not just because she can hear his heartbeat speeding up a little bit with excitement. But in the end, what can she say but, “You’re always welcome, Harlan.”

Harlan beams at her, and his smile doesn’t falter when Marta adds, warningly, “But no funny business.”

Harlan just winks, rakish smile firmly in place. “Scout’s honor, my dear.”

“You were never a Boy Scout,” Marta mutters, finally returning back to her book. She does call her mother to give a warning--God forbid she invite a millionaire without giving her mother a chance to make sure the apartment’s clean--and her mother is all for it. 

“I want to ask him what he’s doing for Christmas this year,” she confides. “I know he had to cancel Thanksgiving thanks to that awful family of his, but he shouldn’t spend Christmas alone, mija, that’s too awful.”

“So you want to invite him to Christmas at our place?” Marta asks, surprised and doubtful.

“Don’t be silly, we’d have it at his,” her mother says. “It’d be nice not to have to cook for one year. And I want to see what that house looks like.”

So that’s settled at least. Even if Marta still thinks Harlan is up to something.

*

It should feel stranger than it does, having Harlan at her home, in her family’s apartment. But Harlan somehow makes it easy, thanking his mother for letting him drop by on such short notice, asking Alice what she plans to do over the winter break, and laughing when she jokes, “Netflix and chill, Harlan, it’s the way to be.”

And when he looks around, his gaze lingers on the photographs and the artwork they’ve put up, not the size of the rooms or how old their appliances are in the kitchenette. 

That’s not it though. It’s strange to realize, but Harlan’s scent, his heartbeat, his presence, has become almost as familiar to Marta as her family’s. For Marta, on an instinctual level, it feels...oddly _right_ to have them all here under the same roof, even if it’s for one night, even if it’s because Harlan has some twisty plan in the back of his head that he wants to sell them on.

It’s not until they’re all at the dinner table, food on their plates that her mother gets down to business. “Mr. Thrombey--”

“Harlan, please,” he insists. 

“Harlan,” her mother concedes, but continues, “I know that you’re not here for my food, or to look at Marta’s baby photos. Is there something you have to tell me?”

Her mother’s braced for bad news, Marta can tell, despite her calm, focused demeanor. Harlan must be able to see it too, because he doesn’t bother with the playacting from earlier, he just nods his head, and says, “Yes. I...I have a proposition for you. I know that...the recent news from your lawyer was not all that you hoped for, but I have a possible solution, one that could keep you in the country while we get everything sorted out.”

“Harlan,” Marta warns, but Alice is asking eagerly, “Really, what is it?”

“Well,” Harlan says, looking at them all. “It’s a proposal.”

A inkling of what’s about to come hits Marta, and she says, “Harlan, no, you promised--”

“I promised I wouldn’t ask your mother to marry a stranger,” Harlan says to her, “And I am not. I would hope at this point that I’m not a stranger to you all.”

It takes a very long second for Marta to parse that sentence, and just as she’s gaping in disbelief at Harlan, her mother takes a long, deep breath and demands, her voice rising, “I’m sorry, you’re asking me to _what_?”

“Marry me,” Harlan says in confirmation, looking directly at her and not being quelled by the rising look of disbelief and outrage. “I’ve got a birth certificate issued in Massachusetts and I’ve got sixty million to my name, and also I don’t snore.”

Her mother swells up in indignation. “Oh, sixty million and you don’t snore, that makes you a catch?”

Marta has absolutely no idea what to say, but she also knows she has to say something. “Mama, Harlan--”

Her mother holds up a finger. “Marta, _no_. You don’t get to speak for him. You, Alice, you both get out of here. And no eavesdropping!”

No eavesdropping is the code for getting to a distance far enough that even their werewolf hearing won’t be able to pick up what’s being said. 

Five minutes later, Marta and Alice are in Marta’s car, driving to the grocery store. “Is he serious?” Alice asks, rhetorically, they could both tell from Harlan’s heartbeat that he meant it. Somehow, impossibly--he meant it. “He’s going to marry Mama.”

“Mama has to agree to it,” Marta points out. 

“But he’s so old!” Alice points out! “He’s like, ninety!”

“Eighty-five,” Marta corrects, and at Alice’s raised eyebrows, protests, “I’m not saying it’s a _good idea_ , Alice, come on.”

“But would it help though?” Alice asks, urgent. 

Marta gapes at her sister. “Alice, don’t tell me you think this is a good idea!”

“I’m not saying it is!” Alice protests. “I just...I want Mama to be safe. I want her to be able to stay with us. I want to stop being afraid all the time.”

Marta’s heart clenches. “I want that too,” she admits. She wants it badly enough that she could see herself agreeing to almost anything, pushing for almost anything, just to find a relief and safety she’s never known. “But Alice, God, a fake marriage? They could get into so much trouble if they got caught.”

Alice pulls a face. “I think sixty million can keep you out of a lot of trouble,” she points out. 

Marta shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, Mama is never going to agree to it. She thinks Harlan’s a crazy old white man with too much money and time on his hands, she’ll never risk it.”

They pull into the parking lot of the nearby grocery store and spend forever walking through the aisles as though they’re shopping for real, and not just killing time until they can head back. Finally, Marta’s phone buzzes, and it’s her mother calling. “Mama?” Marta asks immediately upon answering. “Is Harlan still there? What happened?”

“You girls can come home now, it’s settled,” her mother says, sounding oddly calm. No, not just calm...stunned. 

“Settled?” Marta asks, looking at Alice’s bewildered face. “Mama, what happened? Did Harlan take it okay, when you said no?”

There’s a pause, and in it, Alice’s eyes are already growing wide--wide enough to match Marta’s own--before her mother finally speaks, sounding nearly as bewildered as Marta feels herself. 

“I said yes.”

*

Marta spends a lot of the next week asking Harlan and her mother just what the hell they’re both thinking. It starts with driving Harlan back to his house, Marta grilling him the entire way there about just what the hell he can possibly be thinking, offering to do this. 

“Harlan, it’s illegal!”

Harlan looks surprised. “Marta, I know we live in interesting times, but I don’t think marriage has been outlawed. At least not yet.”

“Fraud is a crime, and this would be fraud!” Marta insists. 

Harlan waves a hand dismissively at this, and it’s that gesture, the unconscious ease of it, that sets her blood boiling, so without a word, Marta deliberately pulls the car over onto the shoulder and parks, turning the hazard lights on. 

“Marta, what--”

“You don’t get to be casual about this,” Marta says, her voice rising in a way it never has, not with Harlan. “This is my mother, this is my family’s future that you’re impacting. Do you have any idea what it’s like, living with the kind of fear that we do? Of course you don’t, you never have--”

“Marta, Marta--” Harlan’s voice is low, sincere and concerned. 

She jabs a finger at him. “So don’t you dare tell me that I’m overreacting, or that I shouldn’t be worried.”

“Marta, my dear,” Harlan says, taking her hand in his. “Do I look like such a fool that I would brush aside your concerns?”

She fixes him with a look, and he grimaces a little in acknowledgment. 

“Well, I can learn,” he adds. “And I would never treat your mother’s well being cavalierly, that’s why I want to do this. I want to--to have a proper stake in this, give her a better shot of staying here with you, where she belongs.”

Every word he says is ringing with sincerity. Marta doesn’t need to hear his heartbeat to know that he means it. 

But she can hear it, and that’s how she knows for sure--for sure--that he does mean it. 

Marta sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “How did you even get my mother to agree?”

“Oh, your mother knows a good bargain when she hears one,” Harlan says, more smugly this time now that she’s calming down. 

“What, and you’re such a catch?” Marta asks. 

“Not me, my kitchen,” Harlan says, wide-eyed, and Marta snorts before she can stop herself. 

She shakes her head. “Your family is going to lose their minds when they find out about this. And they will end up finding out, Harlan.”

“How fortunate, then, that they aren’t in control of my actions,” Harlan replies, calmly. 

Marta groans, but Harlan is impossible to dissuade. And, to Marta’s surprise, so is her mother. 

Marta tackles her mother the next morning at breakfast. “Mama, this is crazy. Marriage?”

“Why is it so crazy?” her mother puffs out, defensive, poking at her bowl of cereal with her spoon. 

“You’re going to marry my eighty-five year-old boss and move into his creepy mansion for a green card, don’t tell me that’s not crazy.”

Her own mouth full of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Alice agrees, saying, “It is pretty batshit, Mama.”

“Language,” her mother says, but it’s half-hearted. 

“Mama,” Marta says, taking her mother’s hand in hers, holding on tight. “You know we’ll support you, no matter what. We just--we just want to understand.”

Her mother is quiet, breathing through her nose, but Marta can hear her mother’s heartbeat starting to pick up, before she finally speaks, her voice deceivingly calm. “I am so tired of being afraid, Marta. I’m grateful for what I have, for everything that we have, gracias a Dios--but I’m still afraid, always so afraid--”

Her mother flexes her fingers, and her claws start to appear, wickedly sharp, curving at the tips. 

“Even with our gift, I’m still afraid of those weak, evil people, of that crook in the White House. And then your boss comes, with his crazy plan, and all I can think is--there are people out there who use their money and their power for nothing but evil, nothing but for their own gain, and I’m sitting here, afraid to even reach out for a _chance_ at something better…”

Marta’s throat is tight with tears, and Alice murmurs, “Oh, Mama,” and rushes over to hug their mother from behind, her face tucked against her mother’s sensible sweater, the one that Marta bought for her last Christmas. 

Her mother shakes her head, a rueful smile starting to appear. “And he might be crazy, but that boss--Harlan,” she corrects herself, “--he cares about you. And he promised me, that no matter what happens, whether this ends up working or we both end up in jail, that you and your sister would be taken care of. And so...I said yes.”

She sighs a little and then adds, “Plus...it will be nice to cook in a kitchen that big.”

“Mama,” Marta protests, and her mother just laughs. “You and Harlan, I swear, you’re both impossible.”

Her mother’s still chuckling. “Well, we can’t let you kids have your way with everything.”

*

And so, almost in the blink of an eye, the impossible becomes an ever-approaching reality, and her mother really is about to marry Harlan Thrombey. 

There’s a three-day waiting period for marriage licenses in the state of Massachusetts, and Marta spends those three days convinced that something will happen to stop the wedding, even as Alice convinces her mother to buy a new dress for the occasion, even as Marta and Harlan make an emergency visit to the local church to somehow convince their priest to perform the marriage ceremony on such short notice and not at the church, but in a private ceremony at Harlan’s house. 

“And, forgive me for asking,” Father Guiterrez asks, narrowing his eyes at Harlan. “But are _you_ Catholic?”

“Well, technically I’m Episcopalian,” Harlan says, with far more nonchalance than that deserves. 

“Hmm,” Father Gutierrez says.

"But my mother is a very devout Catholic," Marta adds hastily, "As you know well, Father."

Father Guiterrez gives Marta a warmer look as he nods and says, "Your family has always been a treasured part of our congregation, Marta." He gives a skeptical look over to Harlan, before sighing a little and conceding, "And I would be honored to preside over your mother's wedding at what will be her new home."

So that is settled, thankfully, along with just about everything else--Fran is speechless for five whole minutes when she hears the news, before breathing out, “Oh…my...God. This is just like that movie with Andie MacDowell and Gerard Depardieu!”

Marta has to sit through another five minutes of Fran describing the plot of the movie Green Card to her, but it all comes good in the end as Fran eagerly agrees to attend the ceremony as a guest and witness. She even insists on baking the wedding cake, over Marta’s protests. 

“You are a guest, Fran--”

“Then call it a wedding present!” Fran retorts, and there’s not much to be said for that, except to agree that yes, everyone will love Fran’s lemon cake with blueberry compote and buttercream frosting. 

And then, in what feels like the blink of an eye--the wedding day is here.

The wedding ceremony is going to take place in the library, and Marta holds her breath when she shows it to her mother and sister for the first time--she’s described the house in great detail when she first started working for Harlan, and taken photos as evidence when Alice refused to believe her, but there’s a difference between seeing photos and actually being in a room with bearskin rugs and a giant display of knives. 

“Oh my God,” Alice says. “Mama, please tell me you’ll stand in front of the knives when you get married.”

Her mother is eyeing the library up with bemusement, making a face at the bearskin rugs, but she chuckles at the knives, saying with humor, “Well, it would be appropriate, don’t you think. He has his knives...and I have my claws.”

They’re still laughing when Harlan comes in, his mother Wanetta on his arm. 

“Good, you’re here,” he says, smiling at them all. “I, ah, I know that technically it is bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony, but I wanted to introduce you to my mother.”

Her mother steps forward, offering her hand. “Hello,” she says, cautiously. “I’m Claudia, it’s so lovely to meet you.”

Wanetta’s eyes are bright and alert, for once, as she surveys Marta’s mother, and Marta holds her breath--she’s never interacted with Wanetta Thrombey much, for good or for ill--but if ever there was a moment for a Thrombey to be awful, this could be it. 

But it doesn’t happen, as Wanetta slowly takes her mother’s hand and says, in her raspy drawl, “Good to meet you as well. You’re...as pretty as your daughters.”

Her mother laughs, and Marta knows she’s not the only one who hears the relief in it. “Thank you, that’s so nice to hear.”

“Harlan,” Alice interrupts, “Can we have the ceremony in front of that circle of knives?”

Harlan brightens, both at the question and at Alice’s easy use of his first name. “Certainly, if your mother doesn’t object.”

“Oh, I think it will work,” Marta’s mother says, dryly, and Wanetta chuckles, the first time that Marta’s ever heard her laugh before. 

And that’s what they do, even despite Father Guiterrez’s looks as he arrives. Marta stands up with Harlan, and Alice stands up with her mother, with Fran and Wanetta sitting there, Fran sniffing loudly, handkerchief pressed to her eyes. 

If Marta’s honest, she has a lump in her throat as well, listening to it all--the steadiness of Harlan’s heart as he repeats his vows, how calm her mother’s breathing is, the winter sunlight streaming through the windows, curtains open wide for once in this house, letting the light in. 

Marta hasn’t forgotten her mother’s words, she knows that hope can hurt you like nothing else in the world. But right in this moment, hope is all that Marta can feel, along with an endless affection and love for her family, for everyone bearing witness for them now.

When the time comes for the rings, Marta reaches into the pocket of her dress and puts them in Harlan’s waiting hand without hesitation.

*  
It takes very little time for Marta and her family to move into the house, but it takes more time to settle into _living_ in Harlan’s home.

Funnily enough, Harlan isn’t the problem. He and her mother--despite living in separate bedrooms--have quickly fallen into an easy rapport, Harlan promising her at the breakfast table that she can change anything in the house she likes, and her mother asking with a raised eyebrow, “But what if I wanted to get rid of the knives?”

Harlan’s alarmed face sets them all to laughing, and Marta’s mother waves the offer off with a chuckle, saying, “The knives are fine, Harlan, I promise.”

Her mother’s lawyer is one of the first to find out about the marriage, and D.C immediately treks up to the house to lecture them both in Harlan’s study, yelling about fraud--

“Alleged fraud,” Harlan corrects. “Is it so strange that a man would like a companion in the twilight of his life and career?”

“You better be able to deliver that with a straight face when you sit down for the interviews,” D.C says.

“Interviews are my forte,” Harlan says grandly.

“I’ll just tell them I married him for the collection of knives,” her mother says, dry.

“You really won’t let the knives go, will you,” Harlan murmurs, and her mother’s laughter rises up, Marta smiling from the floor above where she’s still wrangling with Excel spreadsheets in Harlan’s office. 

“I tell you what,” her mother says, “Let me get rid of one of these awful animal rugs and I won’t bring up the knives again.”

“Done,” Harlan says happily. 

“Hmm,” D.C says, conceding defeat gracefully. “The interviews might go okay after all.”

But at dinner Alice makes the first real slip since they’ve moved in, saying to their mother at dinner, “So when are you getting rid of the bearskin rugs now that Harlan said it’s okay?”

“Alice,” Marta says, shaking her head--Harlan and her mother have been closeted up with D.C all day, there’s no reason for them to know about the rugs since they weren’t in the study with them and shouldn’t have been able to hear anything--not with human hearing, anyway. 

“Good Lord, it’s a conspiracy,” Harlan says, seemingly not noticing that anything’s amiss. 

Alice is a little wide-eyed, having realized that she’s made a mistake, but she covers it up well enough, saying, “Yeah, I’m trying not to get night terrors now that I live here.”

So that turns out okay. Other things...like the dogs so easily following their every command, trailing Marta’s mother around the house like faithful guard dogs, or the moment one night where Alice’s pen rolls beneath a heavy carved statue of a tiger and Alice, forgetting that Harlan’s in the room with them watching novelas, moves to actually lift the statue before Marta quickly says, “Alice, sit down, I’ll just get you another pen.”

But Harlan still notices, calling out, “Be careful, that’s solid oak, it’s heavier than you think.”

“Oh,” Alice says, freezing--Marta can tell from her angle of sight that she’s already gotten it off the floor, and glares at her sister, who pulls a face back at her before silently putting the statue down again. 

“Alice, we have to be careful,” Marta lectures her later that night in the safety of her new bedroom, where no one is going to hear them but Mama, and they’re talking in Spanish anyway. 

“I know!” Alice says, falling back onto her bed with a groan. “Look, I’ve never lived with a human before, okay, I’m not used to keeping my guard up all the time.”

“Look, it’s hard for me too, but it’s important,” Marta says. Alice makes a face but nods, and Marta offers up, “Hey--you want to sneak out and run through the grounds?”

Alice lights up at that, but pauses, asking, “Wait, is it safe?”

Marta nods. “The cameras are only on the gate and the drive, they’ll be easy to avoid.”

So Marta and Alice leave the house to have a game of tag, chasing each other through the snow underneath the half-moon and stars, their lungs full of cold air. Once they’re in the woods, out of sight from the house, they can even run at top speed, chasing each other until for once, Marta is actually breathless from exerting herself for so long, and then they end up climbing two of the largest maple trees and just sitting there, legs dangling, taking in great gulps of the crisp winter air. 

“This is _awesome,_ ” Alice calls out, delighted, and Marta beams up at the night sky.

“Yeah, it is.”

*

But everything can’t be perfect all the time, and two days later the rest of the Thrombeys descend on the house, without any warning. Well, no warning from them--Marta hears the cars coming down the road towards the house, and groans quietly before she realizes Harlan’s in the room with her. 

Harlan glances up from his computer. “What is it, Marta?”

“Nothing,” Marta says reflexively, before making a face and saying, “It’s just--I think I hear cars approaching.”

“Hmm,” Harlan says. “I don’t hear anything.” Marta holds her breath, but Harlan says, “Well, young ears, I suppose,” and he closes the laptop to shuffle to the window where, yes, you can see Walt’s car coming to park in front of the house.

“Well,” Harlan says, sighing faintly. “This is going to be interesting. Oh, more uninvited guests,” he says, as Linda and Joni’s cars join Walt’s. “What fun.” Richard gets out of the car with Linda as well, and Harlan’s lip curls. 

“I’m going to go warn my mother,” Marta says, and quickly escapes. 

Her mother and Alice aren’t as alarmed as Marta privately feels they should be. “Marta, omg, we get it,” Alice grumbles as they come down the stairs. “They’re a bunch of Nazis, Instagram scammers who don’t believe in vaccines, and generally shitty people. We _know already_.”

“Yes, but now they know about us,” Marta hisses in Spanish unhappily, but they’re at the bottom of the stairs now, and Fran is showing everyone inside. Marta is keeping her face calm, even with the glare that Walt is sending her way. 

Ransom isn’t there. Despite not smelling him, or hearing his heartbeat, Marta still feels a wave of relief at not seeing him towering above everyone else, his bitterly amused face. 

But then Marta hears it--the roar of an engine in the distance, coming closer with each second, the quick rhythm of a heartbeat from someone not in this house already, and Alice's hand instinctively clenches on Marta's wrist, not knowing what's happening but knowing that something is very wrong, just from Marta's reaction. 

Marta leans into her sister and says, very quietly, "Stay here, and don't let them bully Mama or Harlan."

Alice nods, eyes wide, and Marta slips past the Thrombeys, ignoring their hostile eyes, and steps outside to wait for the person she knows is coming. 

It's a bitingly cold day, flakes of snow drifting down, and Marta folds up her arms but doesn't let herself flinch back, not at the cold, and not at the sight of Ransom's silver Beemer barrelling forward. The dogs rush out after her, starting to bark, and Marta lets out a crisp, "No, stay back," and they fall back, sitting patiently on either side of her, as she continues to wait at the top of the steps to the house. 

She can see Ransom watching her through the car window, the nervous acceleration of his heartbeat, his breathing, the small squeaks of the leather as his hands tighten on the wheel. 

Ransom slowly gets out of the car, shutting the door behind him as he calls out, “Hey, Marta.”

His heartbeat is a quick rhythm in her ears, and Marta says, “You aren’t welcome here, Ransom.”

His smile is a confident lie. “My mother invited me, Marta.”

“It’s not her house,” Marta says. “Or yours either.”

His smile only widens. “It’s not yours either.”

Marta thinks of the night before, where Alice was watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine with Harlan on the couch, curled up underneath the afghan her mother knitted just last year. Of Fran and her mother cooking together in the kitchen, Marta feeling comfortable enough to walk through the house in her pajamas early in the morning to get her first cup of coffee. 

Before Marta can retort to that, or maybe just throw him to the ground, Linda appears, exasperated. “Ransom, you’re late, get in here.”

Ransom just shrugs at Marta. “Duty calls.”

He still gives her a wide berth as he walks past her into the house though. 

*

Marta has seen more Thrombey family fights than she can count, but this one is especially awful. Perhaps because it’s the first fight that Marta has ever been in the center of. 

The Thrombeys are all facing off against Harlan, who is sitting in his usual chair at the center of the knife display, trick knives circling his head like a dangerous halo. Her mother and sister are standing besides him, and Marta follows their lead, carefully standing at Harlan’s right hand and keeping her shoulders straight, even in the face of Walt and Linda glaring at her. 

“Well?” Harlan says, cutting into the silence. “Am I to get an explanation at last for this unexpected visit?”

Walt and Linda share a look, and then Walt leans in, saying, “Right. Dad, I think you know that we’ve all been concerned about you for a while now. The decisions you’ve been making, how erratic you’ve been--”

“And I’m sure your allowances being cut has nothing to do with this concern,” Harlan says, sardonic. 

They’re all clearly expecting that line of defense, as Linda jumps in without hesitation. “Dad, come on. You’re the one who preaches the importance of family and yet you’re pushing away your own flesh and blood?”

“And damaging the company you’ve spent your entire life building--”

“Despite what you seem to think, Walt,” Harlan says, “I am not quite as decrepit as all that. Blood and Wine is thriving, thank you very much.”

Walt’s starting to get flushed now, heated, “For years now you’ve ignored every sensible business decision I’ve suggested, then you push me aside, you toss away everything we built, and now you go and bring in strangers, bring in some _nurse_ to run the company--”

Marta takes a deep breath, but Harlan speaks before she has to. “It’s my company, Walt, and Marta has done nothing more than kindly assist at my request. And she’s done beautifully, not that it’s any of your concern, because as I said--it’s still my damn company, no matter how often you need to be reminded of that fact!”

Walt is turning beet-red by this point, and despite Joni’s murmurs for everyone to “ --just slow down, re-access and find their centers--” he snaps right back, “Do you need to be reminded of your age? Eighty-five years old and you’re shacking up with some golddigger young enough to be your granddaughter?”

“Excuse me?” Marta blurts out before she can stop herself. 

Walt’s sneer is an ugly thing. “Oh, what, you didn’t think we’d hear about you moving in, bringing in your family? You think we didn’t realize what you were up to, how you’ve taken advantage of my father, isolating him from his family--”

“Oh my God,” Alice says, despite Marta’s earlier warnings to stay quiet, “Dude, you are crazy.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Harlan asks, sitting back in his seat in surprise. “Do you think I married _Marta?_ ”

Walt blinks, angry expression melting away into bemusement. “Wait, but,” he says, jerking his head to look at Donna, then at Linda and Joni, and then from Marta and back to Harlan. “You aren’t--Marta isn’t--”

“And who’s talking about _marriage_?” Linda interrupts, leaning forward over her crossed legs. 

“I thought you were,” Harlan says, affecting an innocent expression. “It’s a conversation I’m certainly willing to have, my dear, although we might want to toss out the philanderer first, I don’t think his perspective will do anyone much good.”

Richard flushes at that not-too-subtle jab. “Dad, look, Linda and I are working through--”

“I don’t recall asking for you to speak!” Harlan snaps back at him, his genuine dislike for Richard coming through. “And I suggest that you stay silent, before I toss you out on your ear.”

“I’d be more than happy to help out with that, just saying,” Alice murmurs, not faltering even when their mother gives her a warning pinch to her arm. 

“So if you and Marta aren’t a couple,” Ransom says, the first words he’s spoken since he’s come inside the house, “Then what is she doing living here? And bringing in her family with her?”

“Have you hired them on as staff?” Joni asks curiously. “Did Fran need more help around the house?”

Alice wrinkles her nose and asks Marta, making sure to speak in English, “Did this white lady just accuse us of being maids?”

“No and no,” Harlan says, over Joni’s spluttering. “To be clear, I have not hired them on as help, and I am not married to or romantically involved in any sense with Marta. The idea of it, good grief, she’s young enough to be my grandchild.” He turns to look at Marta. “No offense, my dear girl.”

“None taken,” Marta says. 

“No, no, marrying Marta would have been completely inappropriate,” Harlan says, and waits just long enough for everyone to start to relax before adding cheerfully, “Which is why I married her mother instead.”

There is just enough time, as the Thrombeys gape at them in disbelief, for Harlan to reach out and take her mother’s hand, and her mother takes it with a crooked smile. 

And then the screaming starts in earnest, reaching decibel pitches that would have had a younger Marta cowering for the nearest quiet space. As it is, she’s still grimacing, and Alice is rubbing fretfully at her ears. Only her mother is keeping it together, squeezing Harlan’s hand as Walt raves, Linda rants, and Harlan gives back as good as he gets. 

Ransom’s staying quiet though, sitting in the back of the library with his arms folded, his gaze alert and calculating, and Marta keeps an eye on him throughout, hands in fists at his side. She knows he’s not stupid enough to try anything now, but she almost wishes he would, just so she could have the excuse to get rid of him. 

Amid the yelling, Walt lets slip that it’s been Proofroc, the security guard, that’s been keeping them updated on what’s been happening at the house, and Harlan says, “Well, it’s good to know who your spy has been!”

“We weren’t spying,” Linda protests, but Walt’s too far gone for any attempt at tactfulness now, shouting back, thumping his cane for emphasis, “Of course we had to get someone to look out for you! Look at what you do when we aren’t around to take care of you! You go and get yourself shackled to this, this _golddigger_ \--”

Marta’s patience snaps. “Insult my mother one more time, Walt, and it will not end well for you,” she says, sharpening her voice to cut through the Thrombey bluster, and it makes Walt falter momentarily, all of them looking at Marta now as though they’ve forgotten she was even in the room (which they probably have) and as though they can’t believe she’s speaking to them this way (they probably can’t).

Harlan, by this point, is so worked up that he’s leaning forward in his seat like he’s ready to launch himself out of it. “You have some nerve calling anyone a golddigger, when it’s perfectly clear what’s got you all worked up, and it has nothing to do with me and _everything_ to do with the state of your bank accounts!”

“There’s no fool like an old fool,” Walt snipes back, getting close enough to Harlan now that Marta thinks even Harlan can smell the booze on him. 

“Better an old fool than a leech,” Harlan says, cheeks flushed, heartbeat raised so high that Marta momentarily feels worry for him.

“You--” Walt splutters, lurching forward, with such an ugly look on his face that Marta steps forward, and Alice bursts out, “Okay, that’s it--Harlan, can we please toss these jerks out of here?”

Harlan turns to look at Alice, and says, slowly, “Alice...go right ahead.”

“Awesome,” Alice says, making a show of cracking her neck before stalking forward and grabbing Walt’s arm in a grip every bit as strong as Marta’s, telling him, “You can get fucked, asshole--”

“Alice, language!” her mother warns, but Harlan pats her hand and says, “No, no, her language is completely appropriate, don’t fret.”

Alice takes Harlan’s approval as permission, as she literally pulls--drags--Walt out of the room and out the house, Donna right on their heels, harping in her high, pinched voice, a counterpoint to Walt’s harsh yells--

And then there are the sounds of a scuffle, and Walt yelping at an octave Marta didn’t think he could reach, and on instinct, because Marta knows her sister, Marta rushes out, followed by the rest of the Thrombeys, only to freeze on the main porch.

Because Alice, her impulsive, reckless sister, is literally carrying Walt Thrombey over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry, showing no signs of strain at carrying the weight of a grown adult male, marching confidently through the snow as Donna and Walt screech in unison, helpless to stop her.

“Holy shit, what is she doing?” Richard demands. 

“Is she _carrying_ him?” Linda asks in disbelief. 

“Obviously she’s carrying him, Linda, just look,” Joni says, gesturing. “God, is that strength training? Does she lift weights?”

Marta is staring at her sister, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t hear Ransom coming up behind her, and she doesn’t flinch as he leans over and whispers in her ear, “Looks like some things run in the family, huh?” His breath is hot against her ear, the nape of her neck, and Marta doesn’t need to turn around to see the smug smile on his face. 

But she does need to control her sister. “Alice, enough!” Marta barks out, sharp, the tone she hasn’t had to use on her sister since they were young, and Marta was the one tasked with making sure Alice behaved on the playground equipment, that she didn’t do anything impossible for an ordinary human seven year-old on the monkey bars or swings. 

And Alice listens, even if it’s not in the way Marta wishes she would, as she glances back towards the house, and with an easy shrug of movement, drops Walt down to the ground, Walt landing in an undignified sprawl by his car. 

“Get gone, asshole,” Alice says to Walt. “And take your Nazi wife with you.”

“Excuse me? Did you just call me a Nazi? How dare you--”

“Naaaaazzzzziiiii,” Alice repeats loudly, undaunted. “Nazi, Nazi, Nazi--”

“Screw you!” Walt roars, scrambling to his feet, only to jump back when Alice squares up to him, feinting a lunge that has Walt quickly moving to get out of her reach. 

“Get the fuck out,” Alice says, and wheels around to look at the rest of the Thrombeys staring at her from the porch. “You too, Harlan wants you gone so leave.”

As both Joni and Richard start to protest, Marta thinks for a moment before tapping Linda on her arm. “Linda, can we talk?”

Linda doesn’t look at all happy, but she concedes to walking a few feet away from everyone--but not far enough that Ransom, still hovering too close for Marta’s liking, won’t be able to hear. 

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied, Marta,” Linda huffs, folding her arms across her chest.

“No, I’m not,” Marta replies. “Are you? Was this what you really wanted when you came here? To offend your father so badly that he has my teenage sister kick you out of his house?”

Linda swells with outrage, but Marta hurriedly says, “Be reasonable. Do you want this to escalate to the point where Harlan has to call security? Or worse, the police? Do you want this rift between you all made even worse?"

"This rift seems to be working out well for you," Linda spits back, an angry flush to her face. "You and your family have made yourselves right at home!"

"It's Harlan's home," Marta says, "And _you_ are his family, no one has forgotten that. But Harlan has his pride. Coming here, treating him like a misbehaving child..." Linda looks away at that, and Marta's suspicions that this was all Walt's plan are confirmed. "Help me keep this from escalating, Linda," Marta says.

Linda’s mouth twists, in unhappiness and in anger, but Harlan calls out to Alice, “Well done, my girl!”

A muscle twitches in Linda’s jaw, and abruptly, without another word or glance at Marta, Linda whirls around and says, “Richard, Ransom--come on, we’re leaving. We’re clearly not wanted here.”

“Wait, really?’ Richard asks, taken aback--but Linda glares viciously at him, and Richard comes to heel at that, hurriedly following her to their Mercedes. 

Ransom hasn’t moved, his gaze fixed on Marta. If he was sneering, it would be easier to take, but he’s not. His gaze is very sharp and very thoughtful, and Marta thinks wildly for one moment that she can hear him thinking, the sharp clicking of his thoughts coming together into...what?

But then the moment is gone, Ransom’s expression turns into his usual sneer, as he lifts two fingers to his forehead in a sarcastic salute and saunters off without another word. 

With Linda and her family retreating, and Walt so thoroughly humiliated, the rest of the Thrombeys scatter off eventually. Once their cars are wheeling away, Marta glares at Alice and says in Spanish, “That was not helpful, Alice.”

Alice flips her hair off her shoulders, hands on her hips and says pointedly, in English, “I think that was very helpful to us, seeing as the assholes are now gone, like we wanted them to be!”

Marta grits her teeth and continues talking in Spanish, at a clip that she knows Harlan won’t be able to keep up with (or Fran, who is still in the house but is close enough now to be eavesdropping). “It’s dangerous--you antagonized them, and do you think it’s normal for a teenage girl to be able to lift a grown man without help! To carry him all this way--”

“I am a normal teenage girl,” Alice retorts, although thankfully she’s switched back to Spanish now, “And I am defending my family, our family, like anyone else would! Jesus, Marta, don’t tell me you don’t think those people are awful! You’re the one who keeps telling us all these stories, about the Nazi son and the awful white feminists--”

“They are awful, and they’ll do more awful things to us if we give them ammunition!” Marta finally shouts. “Which you just did!”

“Girls, please,” her mother injects, “Let’s at least take this inside if you’re going to keep shouting--”

“Excuse me,” Harlan says, remarkably casual for how heated everything has gotten today. “Not to change the subject--although I actually think this might be on-topic, but do I have permission to ask how Alice was able to carry Walt all the way to the car like that?” 

Marta and Alice both fall silent to look at him; their mother is looking at him too, and the silence feels oddly loud in Marta’s ears. 

Harlan appears not to notice, as he continues with a faint smile. “Or is this like all the other things we don’t discuss, like how all the silver utensils in the house have been put away, or Alice and Marta cavorting in the woods in the dead of night when they think I’m asleep?” Marta swears she doesn’t move a muscle, but her face must be doing something as Harlan notices her expression and says apologetically, “I’m eighty-five, it’s true, but I do notice things still.”

Marta can’t speak. If she lies now she’ll puke, and then Harlan will know she’s hiding something, if she doesn’t lie, or find a creative way to hide the truth, then everything is done for, ruined beyond saving. 

Harlan must see the struggle in her face, in all their faces, and he says, more gently now, “Whatever it is...you can trust me. I’m on your side.”

“Harlan,” Marta begins, miserably, not knowing how to even finish that sentence, but once again, one of her family surprises her. 

This time it’s her mother, who shakes her head at Marta and turns to look Harlan, her husband, full in the face. “Harlan,” she says carefully, “You don’t know what you’re asking of her, of us. This isn’t something you can walk away from.”

For all of her speed and strength, Marta is paralyzed, frozen to the spot. Her mother can’t be--she can’t be about to do this. 

“Mama?” Alice asks, shocked out of her defiance. 

Her mother doesn’t pause, doesn’t even look at either of them, keeps her eyes focused on Harlan as she says, “Once we tell you, Harlan, that’s it...you’re tied to us forever. No annulment, no divorce decree is going to change that.”

Harlan nods slowly, his face serious and resolute. “Okay. I’m in.”

“Harlan,” Marta says, desperately trying to think of a way to stop this train from speeding down the tracks. 

He looks at her, and his mouth moves in a crooked smile. “My dear, you can’t expect me to turn away from a mystery, now can you?”

“This is a mystery even you won’t have thought of,” her mother says, wryly, and places her hand in Harlan’s. Marta steps forward, helplessly, but it’s already too late--her mother, the best shifter out of all of them, is carefully letting her hand transform into her other self’s foreleg, the paw of a wolf resting in the palm of Harlan’s hand, the claws she joked about on her wedding day curving along his wrist. 

“Sweet...holy God,” Harlan whispers slowly, and when he looks up at them, it’s with the face of a man who has seen a miracle.

*

For once, Marta and Alice are completely united against their mother. 

“How could you tell him?” Marta demands, pacing back and forth in Harlan’s office. It’s a small space at the best of times, even smaller now that the four of them are crammed in it together. 

Alice is spluttering. “My entire life, the one thing you drilled into me is that we never tell humans. Never! We don’t tell humans and we definitely don’t shift in front of them! And then you just did! Right in front of us!”

Her mother, exasperated, snipes back, “I know what I did, I was _there_ , and I would appreciate you not treating me as though I’ve lost my mind--”

“Have you?” Alice demands, and as her mother inhales to start in on Alice, Harlan holds up his hand.

“May I just say,” Harlan offers up, “That I am frankly delighted to be in a family of, ah, werewolves. Although I suppose it’s a pack, isn’t it? Or is that the wrong terminology, I confess that I’ve never studied up on it.”

He sounds sincere--but more than that, he sounds _giddy_. Marta narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not...upset? Or freaked out? Or scared?”

“He doesn’t smell like he’s scared,” Alice says. 

“I am not scared, I am _delighted_ ,” Harlan says firmly. “Aside from everything else, I am deeply honored by the trust your mother has shown in me, a trust I will do everything in my power to be worthy of.”

A silence falls over them at that. 

Marta takes a breath and tries to work out what to say. “Harlan, it’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just...this is a big secret to ask of someone to keep. Especially someone who had no idea that this--that we are even possible.”

“On the plus side,” Alice says, “At least this means I can move the furniture around without having to check if Harlan’s watching.”

“Alice, what did I say about not being helpful,” Marta says, but Harlan’s winking at Alice now and giving her a thumbs-up. “Sky’s the limit!” he tells her helpfully. 

“I’ve married a strange man,” Marta’s mother says, half to herself. She looks at Marta and says next, pointedly, “But I did marry him, and make vows in front of God, my family and a priest that I mean to keep. Marta, sweetheart...you need to tell him about Ransom.”

Marta goes cold, and she automatically shakes her head. “Mama, no,” she says. 

Harlan’s looking between them, bewildered. “What? What is this about Ransom?”

Her mother is relentless. “You said the family was awful, you were right about that. You said Harlan could be trusted, you were right about that too. Now I’m telling you he needs to know the truth about what his grandson did.”

“What’s this about?” Harlan asks, urgently. “Marta--did Ransom try to do something to you?”

He’s already partly out of his seat at just the thought of it--outraged and worried for her, his protectiveness showing even though just a moment ago, he’d discovered she was something entirely out of his realm of understanding. 

Marta’s throat is aching, but she looks at her mother’s resolute face and knows there’s no way out of this but through. “No, Ransom didn’t try to do something to me. But he did try to do something to you.”

It takes far less time than it should, to tell Harlan the story of what happened the night of his birthday party. To explain in blunt words what Marta discovered, how she prevented his murder, how she’s confronted Ransom about it twice and he’s never been able to convincingly deny his actions. 

There’s a flash of awful awareness in Harlan’s eyes in the beginning, when Marta’s talking about the switch of the vials, but as Marta continues to talk, Harlan doesn’t look at her, but at her mother, the two of them sharing something without words. 

They’ve bonded, Marta realizes. All this time that Marta’s been getting used to the house, to living here--the two of them have been getting used to each other, becoming, if not an actual married couple, at least friends, people who know and rely on each other. 

It’s a strange thing to watch. 

At last, Harlan says, his gaze turned inward, somewhere Marta can't see or reach, “Well. Well. I probably should have seen that coming.”


	3. Chapter 3

“This is a horrible idea,” Marta says, pacing in the library. 

“Normally I’d tell you to calm down, but this is too wild, even I’m freaked out,” Alice agrees, watching her pace from where she’s sitting in one of the leather armchairs, her leg hooked on one of the armrests. “I can’t believe Harlan’s inviting that murdering shithead here. What is he thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Marta says. “But Harlan’s got a plan, I know he does.”

It’s not until Harlan invites her into his study that Marta finally finds out what he’s thinking. 

He’s taken out the morphine and Toradol vials from her medical bag, and carefully set them down on his desk, sitting there in plain sight of anyone sitting across from him. 

“So you are going to confront him,” Marta says, her stomach flipping uneasily at the thought. 

“Yes,” Harlan confirms. 

“He’ll just deny it,” Marta warns. “He’ll say that I’m a liar, that I’m trying to drive a wedge between you and your real family.”

“And when he says it, I won’t believe him,” Harlan says calmly. 

Her mother appears in the doorway, her arms tightly crossed over her arms and a nervous look on her face. “He’s coming soon. Harlan, you have to _tell_ her already.”

“Tell me what?” Marta asks, looking them at them both. “Harlan, what’s going on?”

Harlan sits down behind his desk. “I’d hoped to tell you in a different way, ease you into it, but well, here we are. Now that I’ve cut my family loose from the money tree, I’m rather at a loss for who to give it to once I’m gone.”

It takes a few seconds before Marta realizes his meaning. “Harlan,” she says slowly, as a warning, but Harlan’s expression doesn’t waver, and neither does the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Oh God. Oh, no, he actually does mean it. 

“Harlan,” Marta says again, but as a gasp this time, sinking into a chair, feeling as close to winded as she can get. “Harlan, you can’t be serious!”

“I am,” Harlan says. “Once I’m gone—which I don’t intend to happen for a long while yet, much to Ransom’s disappointment--you’ll get it all. The house, the money, and the rights to every word I’ve ever published.”

Marta chokes, barely hearing Alice shouting, “Holy fuck, what?” from the kitchen. “But I don’t want it!”

“The fact that you can say that and mean it is precisely why you should have it,” Harlan says, unruffled.

As Marta tries, futilely, to find something, _anything_ , to say to this, her mother comes forward and says, gently, her hands on Marta’s shoulder, “Marta, I know this is a lot, if you need time to take it in…”

Marta slowly lifts her head to stare at her mother. “Have you known this whole time what Harlan’s been planning?”

“I told her the night I proposed,” Harlan confirms. “I had to convince your mother I wasn’t just acting on a sudden whim before she’d agree to marry me.”

“I didn’t believe him, not until he showed me the will,” her mother admits. “Once I knew how invested he was, I knew he wouldn’t abandon us if things went wrong.”

This is too much. Overwhelmed, Marta cradles her forehead in her hand, and barely jumps as she hears Alice barrelling through the house, screeching, “Harlan, are you serious?”

As her mother turns to scold Alice for eavesdropping and simultaneously tries to explain, Harlan looks to Marta and says, sympathetically, “Need a moment to take it in?”

“I need a _year_ ,” Marta says, with feeling. 

“Well, you’ve got two minutes,” Harlan tells her. “I told Ransom to be here precisely at two o’clock, and I’ve never known him to be late when serving his own interests.”

“You’re enjoying this drama way too much,” Marta accuses, glowering at Harlan as he starts to direct them all into their assigned positions, Marta and Alice at either side of his chair behind the desk, Mama in an armchair close to the windows.

“Can’t I be excused for enjoying the moment?” Harlan asks, faux-injured. “Now take a breath and compose yourself.” As Marta tries to do just that, Harlan says gently, “Marta, you are a powerful being beyond Ransom’s understanding, and you are now the sole heir to the Thrombey estate. Carry yourself with that knowledge, and the boy won’t know what hit him.”

“Yeah, Marta,” Alice says, giddy. “There’s a she-wolf in the closet, now let it out so it can breathe.”

Marta stares at her sister, quoting Shakira lyrics to her now, of all times, and then bursts out laughing. 

And that’s how would-be murderer Ransom Drysdale walks in, to the sight of Marta and her family in Harlan’s study, Marta smiling still as she tries to smother her hysterical giggles. 

Marta looks at him, her hand half-covering the smile now slowly dying on her face. Ransom doesn’t look cool or contemptuous as usual--instead there’s a baffled edge to his obvious anger, as if he _cannot understand_ what is happening here, and it’s slowly driving him insane. 

Marta lifts her chin and stares right back at him. Good. 

“Granddad, what is this?” he asks Harlan, his gaze not moving from Marta’s face. “It looks like you’ve got a bunch of Jehovah’s Witnesses occupying your house.”

“Sit down, Ransom,” Harlan says. His face and voice give little away, but Marta hears it; the faster beating of his heart. 

Ransom lowers himself into the same chair Marta was sitting in, just a few minutes ago. There’s the smallest hitch in his breathing as he sees the vials on Harlan’s desk, and Marta sees the tension in his jaw as he looks at them.

“So?”

Harlan looks at his grandson, head tilted a little to one side, and asks, abruptly, “What was going to be your plan if the coroner’s office tested the vials and found they were switched?”

Ransom does a credible job of looking bewildered, as he says, “Grandad, don’t tell me she’s got you believing this crazy story--”

Harlan waves a hand dismissively. “No matter, no matter. By now I’m sure you’ve realized your ploy won’t work, and everyone in the house will be on alert for any more...opportune accidents.”

Marta tries her best to keep her poker face, to keep her chin up and her expression blank, but this is too much. Harlan is so calm, that’s the awful thing, looking at this horrible grandchild who tried to kill him and he’s talking to him as if, as if they’re discussing the price of a set of golf clubs.

“And we live so long, don’t we Thrombeys?” Harlan’s musing now. “Why, if my mother’s any sign, odds are I’ll live to be a hundred, and then where will you be? For all you know, by the time I finally kick the bucket, I’ll have donated all my money to save...endangered dung beetles or some such.”

“Dung beetles?” Alice mouths at Marta, who shakes her head as minutely as possible, because hell if she knows where Harlan’s going with this. 

But Ransom...Ransom’s looking at Harlan with narrowed eyes, and he asks abruptly, “What’s the game here, Grandad?”

“Sir,” Harlan says crisply, all of his nonchalance gone now. “You tried to kill me and frame an innocent woman in the process, you will call me sir from now on.”

The spark of fury on Ransom’s face has Marta squaring her shoulders, the muscles in her body tensing as she readies herself to pounce if needed. 

But Ransom’s blue eyes flick up to her, and then he says, with a sneer, “What’s the game here… _sir.”_

Harlan’s mouth quirks upward in the ghost of a smile. 

But Ransom’s not done, as he gestures at Marta, at her mother and sister, and he says, “I see you’ve bought yourself a new family to replace the one you’ve screwed over, haven’t you, sir? Too bad my mom and Uncle Walt are so warped by your mind games and shitty parenting, what, did the fun go out of jerking them around? You needed some fresh new victims to fuck with?”

“We’re not the ones so desperate for money we didn’t earn that we’re willing to kill for it,” Marta says, in a low furious voice that she doesn’t even recognize as her own. “Say one more disrespectful word, Ransom, and I’ll knock you to the ground again.”

Ransom looks _furious_ , every line in his body drawn tight from tension as he stares angrily at Marta, but he shuts up, and Harlan looks at Marta with appreciation and surprise.

“Thank you, Marta,” he says. “Now, I was considering just what to do with you, Ransom. After all, nothing else has worked, not the military school or the rehab, not the life coach or the internships. Then I realized...a bribe. Now that just might work.”

“You want to bribe me into not trying to kill you?” Ransom asks, voice filled with disbelief.

“Let’s call it an incentive for good behavior,” Harlan says. “Marta will still inherit the majority of my estate, but you, Ransom, will receive your previous share...but only through Marta releasing the funds in regular allotments. She’ll have full control over the funds, and should you behave in a manner she dislikes…” He cuts a finger over his own throat.

“Wait, what?” Marta and Ransom ask, in horrified unison.

Harlan ignores Ransom, and turns to look at Marta. “I do apologize for saddling you with this arrogant little shit, Marta, but if anyone can wrangle him it’s you.”

“Harlan, you can’t be serious,” Marta says urgently. 

“For once, the nurse is right,” Ransom begins, but falls silent at the furious look Marta sends him.

“Listen, I don’t care what you do with the money,” Marta says to Harlan, “But to give any of it to him? After what he did? After he tried to hurt you? You _would_ be better off giving it all away to the beetles!”

“It neutralizes an adversary, my dear,” Harlan says. “And with my family, that’s never something to disregard.”

Ransom holds up a finger. “One second. What makes you think I’ll go for this? Not that I’m confessing to anything here—“

“Of course not, you don’t have the decency to confess,” Marta’s mother mutters in Spanish.

“But what makes you think I’ll stand by and watch you disinherit everyone else?”

Harlan scoffs. “Don’t pretend you’re concerned about your parents, or your uncle and cousins. I think that so long as you get your...cut, you’ll gladly watch the rest of the family walk away with nothing. You’re nothing but spite and resentment in an L.L Bean coat and a nice haircut, Ransom, and I doubt you’ll be anything else at this late date.”

Ransom’s mouth twists, in an angry mockery of a smile. He stays quiet for a long moment, though, looking from Harlan to Marta, and then scoffs quietly to himself.

“What the hell, it’s easier than a break-in. You’ve got yourself a deal, _sir_.”

He actually reaches out a hand across the table—dear God, are they going to actually shake on this? Harlan seems to momentarily hesitate, but then he reaches out, and his wrinkled, gnarled hand clasps Ransom’s, and the deal is done.

*

“That,” Alice says later, “was fucking batshit.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Marta’s mother promises her.

But it’s what Harlan doesn’t say that sticks with Marta. Maybe because she already knows, that for all of Harlan’s smooth words and bravado that day, he’s still an old man, trapped with a grandson that tried to kill him over money.

He needs help, and Marta is in a position to give it to him.

Which is why, when she wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of Ransom outside the house, driving through the grounds in his Beemer, she doesn’t call for her family, or for security.

No, she puts on her clothes and her winter boots, and she goes to handle it herself.

There’s something almost terrifying, about how natural it feels to be moving through the dark woods, her footsteps nearly silent on the newly-fallen snow. Ransom is still in his car, the engine off and no music playing from his phone or car stereo. The only sounds that Marta can hear from him are his heartbeat, his breathing, and the subtle found of his body moving as he starts to shiver from the cold. 

Marta can’t understand him, what’s pushed him to come out here in the night and park his car off the path to, what? Sit there, stare at the house through the trees, and brood? Is he there to try and figure out another way of getting into the house, to try and hurt Harlan?

Well, if that’s his plan, he needs to learn how futile it really is. 

Marta approaches the car from behind, and she feels an entirely unworthy sense of satisfaction, coming up to the driver’s side and watching Ransom jump in his seat as he sees her. Marta knocks heavily on the window--but not too heavily, she doesn’t want to break it, and says clearly, “Get out of the car, Ransom.”

Ransom shakes his head in disbelief, laughing a little to himself as he unbuckles his seat belt and gets out. Marta keeps her face impassive as he gets out of the car, just keeps her chin up and demands, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ransom scoffs, his teeth sharp and bright in the darkness. “Wow, the gloves are really off now, aren’t they?”

“Answer the question,” Marta says, sharply. “What are you doing here? You got your reward this afternoon, go off and gloat in some fancy bar or whatever it is you do to waste your time.”

“Aw, are you mad?” Ransom asks, looking delighted at the thought. “Pissed off you don’t get to walk away with all the money now?”

Marta’s temper, which she’s had to keep on a tight leash all day, flares up past her control and she plants her hands in the center of Ransom’s broad chest and _shoves_. 

Ransom stumbles back a few steps, even now still surprised at her strength. “Jesus!”

Marta doesn’t speak, she just charges forward and shoves him again, harder this time, so that Ransom nearly trips over his own feet. The anger is boiling over inside of her, as she remembers Harlan having to shake the hand of the man that tried to kill him, tried to ruin her, and here he still is, disturbing her peace, refusing to let her _rest--_

The third shove is what knocks Ransom over, as he falls into the snow, sprawled out with his weight on his elbows, looking up at her with shock and not just a hint of actual fear, for the first time. 

“How dare you,” Marta says, her voice thick with fury. “How dare you come here and try to hurt him again?”

Ransom blinks up at her, and then says, “Christ, I’m not here for Harlan!” Marta steps forward, threatening, and Ransom holds up a hand, to defend himself, and Marta stops, shocked back into herself. 

“I’m not here for Harlan,” Ransom repeats again. “I was trying to figure _you_ out.”

“Me?” Marta asks, alarmed.

“Yes, you,” Ransom says, scrambling back up to his feet, wiping at his pants to get rid of the worst of the snow. “Every time I’m around, you show up out of the blue, you’re not afraid, you toss me around like it’s _nothing--”_

Marta feels a chill within her, one that has nothing to do with the cold wind that’s picking up now, whistling through the branches. 

“Christ, it’s freezing out here and you’re just wearing a _sweater_!” Ransom continues to rant. “Are you even shivering right now?”

She’s not, but Marta folds her arms defensively over her chest. “Would you like it better if I was weak and vulnerable?” she asks him. “Soft and easy prey for you to bully?”

Ransom stops at that, arrested, his breath coming in white puffs of air. 

“Well, I’m not,” Marta says, keeping herself steady at last. “I’m not weak, I’m not soft, I’m not going to let you get away with anything. Not a single thing.” She lifts her chin. “And seeing as I’ll be the one in charge of your allowance from now on, I don’t think it’s smart of you to test me anymore.”

She deliberately takes a step backwards and gestures with one arm at Ransom’s car. “Get back into your silly car, and don’t come back again. Not unless you’re invited.”

Ransom looks at her for a long moment, and then smirks. “Is that an order?”

“Yes,” Marta replies, without hesitation. “Now go.”

“Yes, _ma’am_ ,” Ransom drawls, but he is moving at last, walking past Marta--every muscle in Marta’s body is straining, just barely waiting for a single hint that Ransom’s going to turn and lash out, but Ransom doesn’t, he just opens the car door and gets back in.

Marta stays there, watching silently, as he drives off, the sound of his roaring engine finally slipping away into the night, and it’s only once she can’t hear it at all that she finally bends over and gasps for breath, breathing in harsh gulps of the frigid winter air. 

She goes back to the house as quickly and quietly as she can, but it’s no use, Alice is waiting for her by the window, asking softly, “Marta?”

“It’s okay, Alice, he’s gone,” Marta says, as soothingly as she can. 

Alice looks unnaturally solemn for her, and very young, but she just nods unhappily and goes off to her bedroom, and Marta sighs in exhaustion and opens the door to her still-new home, and goes inside. 

*

Despite her late-night adventure, Marta still wakes up early the following morning. She ends up going for another walk through the grounds--this time, staying within sight of the house. Within the walls, she can hear the rest of the family gathering together for breakfast, but doesn't come in--she's not very hungry yet, and needs to work off this restless energy. 

It works but only so far, she’s still turning over the memories of last night, Ransom’s words, Ransom sprawled out in the snow, how far her own anger had pushed her, even as she walks and walks, making fresh tracks through the snow.

It's not until something shifts in Alice's tone of voice, in her heartbeat, that Marta begins to pay attention in earnest, and she focuses her senses just in time to hear, "...really werewolves, Fran!”

"Werewolves?" Fran repeats, incredulous, as Marta says out loud, "Oh, Alice, no," and starts to run back to the house at full speed. 

Marta is quick, but she's not fast enough to outrun her impulsive sister's actions, as Fran's shriek is ringing in her ears by the time that Marta bursts into the kitchen. 

And yes, her mother and Harlan are at the kitchen table too, her mother rubbing her temples and muttering, aghast, "Dios mio," as Fran stands there, hands covering her mouth, staring in disbelief at Alice in her wolf form, her tail wagging even as she turns to face Marta. 

There are a lot of four-letter words that are coming to mind right now, but Marta just barely manages to swallow them back, instead shrieking, "Alice!"

"This girl, I swear to God," her mother says, getting up from her chair and ignoring Harlan's reassuring pats to her arm. "Alice, you change back right this second!"

Alice waits for a few more seconds, turning around in a circle and bobbing her head in Fran's direction as if to emphasize, _See, I'm real_ , before ducking under the table and shifting back, Harlan politely looking away as she scuttles out naked from the table to grab the robe she'd discarded in her change. 

Alice has barely belted her robe around her waist before the yelling starts in earnest. 

“What were you thinking?” their mother yells, outraged.

“You told Harlan, this is the same thing—“

“This is not the same thing, I am married to Harlan!”

“You’ve been married for like a second and you still went and told him, without telling us first! Fran needs to know—“

“How does she need to know?” Marta interjects, her own voice rising. “We were stable, Alice, we’d just worked out everything yesterday and now you go and—“

"You're not the only one trying to protect us!" Alice bursts out. "Fran works here, she _lives_ here, it's not _fair_ to keep this from her! Not when that shithead Ransom keeps lurking in the woods, ready to do God knows what! What happens if he shows up when none of us are around, and he goes after Fran and Harlan?”

“Ransom was here last night?” Harlan asks, alert. 

“Marta, why didn’t you say something?” her mother demands, and as Alice adopts an I-told-you-so expression, immediately wheels over to Alice and says quickly, “But that doesn’t excuse you!”

“Werewolves?” Fran repeats, at a higher register, and everyone falls silent and turns to look at her. Three of them are able to hear the rapid-fire beat of her heart, but all of them can see how stiff she is now, how wide and disbelieving her eyes are. 

Marta looks to her mother, to Harlan, but both of them are watching Fran warily, so it falls to Marta to say, “Yes, Fran, we--”

That’s all she manages to get out, as Fran just explodes with glee, clapping her hands together as she shrieks, “Oh my fucking God, this is amazing!” No one else can get in a word, as Fran smashes words together at a rapid-fire clip, “You have to tell me everything are all of you werewolves do you change at the full moon what else is out there are there witches are there Yetis _have you ever seen a unicorn?!”_

Harlan starts to laugh, long and loud. “Well, I think Fran’s taking it rather well, wouldn’t you say?” 

As they all start giggling, mostly out of sheer relief, Alice hugs a still gobsmacked Fran and says, “Fran, you are a legend.”

*

Now that everyone in the house knows, it’s incredible how much easier things are. 

Marta had known what she was concealing, of course, but she hadn’t realized how much of a weight it had been, constantly hiding so much of herself, tucking away all that she could do, all that she is. Now it’s nothing, to see Alice lounging on a rug in her wolf form, to rearrange furniture by herself because she doesn’t have to hide her strength, for her mother to call out for them in a normal voice and for everyone to understand that she can be heard, no matter how quietly she speaks. 

And the nights are a joy. To be able to run and run with her mother and sister through the dark woods, Harlan and Fran watching them from the balcony, safely muffled and wrapped up against the cold, to lift up her head and howl for joy and hear her family answering back…

She’d never realized how compressed her existence was, until she finally got to experience freedom. 

But not everything is perfect, not yet. Harlan, at her mother’s insistence--and at Alice ominously pounding her fist against her palm at every mention of Ransom--has hired a private investigator to keep track of Ransom’s whereabouts, but Ransom is keeping his distance, just as Marta demanded from him. 

Marta still finds herself waking up most nights to nightmares of the two of them in the woods, of Ransom either at her feet, pleading for mercy, or Ransom advancing relentlessly, and Marta knowing that at any moment, she’ll have no choice but to attack--

They’re just dreams, not premonitions. It doesn’t matter what she dreams about, not as long as Marta is determined not to make them true. 

Still, with all of her brooding, it takes longer than it should for Marta to realize that Harlan's thinking about Ransom too. 

They're in the study together, Marta able to take advantage of the now-unusually slow day to rest and read some more Christie. But she happens to look up and see that Harlan is not working on his computer, or reading, or even playing with one of his knives--he's just staring out the window, his face cast into unhappy lines. 

"Harlan?" Marta asks. "All you all right?"

He waves a hand dismissively. "Fine, fine, just the wonderings of an old fool."

Marta shuts her copy of _The Mystery of the Blue Train_ and says, "Harlan, you're not a fool, and what's wrong?"

Harlan darts a glance towards her, uncharastically hesitant for him, and says, slowly, "It's just...seeing your family together, you and Alice and your mother. My family's never been like that. I was always locked up in my office writing, or traveling around the world to get some local color...Elaine was the one who raised the kids, and after she died I passed the job onto my mother like it was nothing for me to worry about, and now...now Ransom is right, and it's too late for me to attempt to repair the breach."

"Harlan," Marta says, aching with sympathy. "It's not too late."

Harlan raises a skeptical eyebrow at her. "Really? Because I have a grandson who tried to off me, another one who's marching off into the belly of fascism, my son refuses to ask anything of me other than handouts, and my daughter is committed to her philanderer of a husband. My whole life, I tried to buy their love and compliance with my money, and I have finally reaped what I've sown."

"Harlan--"

He shakes his head abruptly in frustration. "Bah. Don't mind my pitiful mewling, Marta. Your family just reminds me of the path I didn't take, that's all."

Marta swallows, and says, "It's your family too."

Harlan's eyes lift towards her, surprised and hopeful, and Marta continues past the lump in her throat. "It's not...it's not just that you're married to Mama that I say that. You protected us, you trusted us. So we're protecting you, and we trust you back. Family, pack, whatever you want to call it--you're part of us now. We're not going to let you go through this alone."

Because it's Harlan, Marta pretends not to see the way his eyes are wet and shining, and because it's Harlan, when he reaches out for her hand, she grabs it and holds on tight. 

*

The man from Immigration doesn’t look impressive or terrifying, or like he holds the fate of Marta’s family in his hand. He’s white, unsurprisingly, with heavy glasses and a receding hairline, and he looks at the house with awe even as he answers Marta’s polite questions about how his drive went, the conditions of the road and if it’s likely to snow before dark. 

D.C, their mother’s lawyer, is there as well, and Marta is grateful for her calm professionalism. And then Harlan appears, her mother by her side, and in the blink of an eye, the entire room is helpless before the force of Harlan’s personality. 

It’s like watching a magic trick, Marta thinks. Not real magic, but the sleight of hand that humans love, where you know it’s a trick but you’re enchanted by it anyway. 

He makes it all seem impossible for anyone to question why he would marry a woman younger than his own daughter out of the blue, why this hasty work to fix her mother’s status. In the face of Harlan’s charm and easy confidence, it stops looking dubious, and it all just becomes another eccentric act by Harlan Thrombey, the famous and eccentric author. 

There is one terrifying moment, when the Immigration man takes out a notebook and says, eyes peering at them over his glasses, “I did receive a rather alarming call from a...Walt Thrombey, alleging that perhaps this marriage isn’t what it seems to be?”

Marta’s ears are ringing with the rapid heartbeats of everyone in the room, but Harlan is unruffled, making a mournful face as he says, “Ah. My son Walt. We’ve had some unfortunate disagreements lately, you know, money and such. There was a nasty scene here, harsh words were said. It’s...truly a shame that he’s continuing to lash out, and it’s even more shameful that he’s chosen to involve you.”

His expression is rueful, sorrowful at his son’s behavior, and a stranger wouldn’t be able to see the anger in his glittering eyes. 

Over coffee and Fran’s delicious scones, the Immigration man unbends, beaming happily as he asks Harlan about where he gets his plots from, and will they ever see the _Menagerie_ trilogy as a film or as a miniseries?

Harlan plays it coy, saying easily, “Oh, you know, it’s hard to put my work into another person’s hands, but you never know, do you? The right deal, the right person…”

Marta keeps her face from reacting to this, choosing instead to recede further into the background. When the man leaves at last, with an autographed copy of Harlan’s latest book and a container full of Fran’s scones, it’s obvious to all of them that the day was a success. 

But even so, it’s not until they hear the man driving off that everyone crumples with relief, “Ohhh, that was the worst, the absolute worst,” Alice mutters, theatrically collapsing into a chair. 

“I had my heart in my throat the entire time,” Marta’s mother admits, a hand over her chest. 

“I won’t make any promises, but that went really well,” D.C confirms. She shoots a glance at Harlan and smirks, adding, “Harlan’s charm offensive went pretty well too.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Harlan says loftily. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.” But he rubs her mother’s shoulder as he says it, saying more quietly to her, “Didn’t I tell you it would all work out?”

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Marta cautions.

Harlan looks undaunted. “We’re getting there, my dear. We’re getting there.”

*

“We’re not having my wretched family over for Christmas,” Harlan declares at breakfast the next morning. 

All of them are relieved at the news, yet their mother protests, “Harlan, that’s not necessary--”

“Oh, yes it is,” Harlan says grimly. “If Walt’s trying to put the knife into your immigration case, I’ll be damned if I have him at my table, looking at his sour face over the Christmas turkey!”

Behind Harlan, Fran is giving them the thumbs-up sign, obviously as delighted by the news as the rest of them. 

“It’s not good to hold grudges, especially during the holidays,” her mother protests still. 

“We’re Thrombeys, all we do is hold grudges,” Harlan scoffs. 

“But,” Marta says slowly, “If it looks like we’re alienating you from your family, driving them away…”

“They could totally accuse us of elder abuse too,” Alice warns. “Maybe even go after Marta’s license for nursing?”

Harlan grimaces, but doesn’t argue the point. “Elder abuse, bah. Still, though...we might turn this into an opportunity.” He thinks for a moment, then says, “What if I invited some people over for Christmas dinner? Not my family, I refuse there, but...Alan, my lawyer. Some of my more respectable friends, Laura’s a retired judge, Orson still writes for the New Yorker occasionally...we’ll show our faces, show our new family, and counter any poison my ungrateful son’s been spreading out in the community.”

He continues, making a face as he says, “And for New Year’s...I can throw my usual party, have the family down again. If that’s all right with you?” he asks, looking to her mother anxiously. “If you don’t want them here, I’ll understand, especially after Walt’s outrageous behavior.”

Her mother offers him a reassuring smile, patting his hand. “It’s okay, he’s your son. We don’t mind, do we, girls?”

She tosses them a firm look, and all Marta and Alice can do is say, “Yes, Mama.” Even if Alice makes a face at Fran, who makes a sympathetic face right back.

*

The day of the New Year’s Eve party, Marta takes a break from helping her mother and Fran with frying the buñuelos to look carefully at the latest addition to the parlor, a framed local newspaper article about famous author Harlan Thrombey joining the community for this year’s Las Posadas at the local church with his new wife and family. Harlan had gotten it framed and mounted just in time for New Year’s, making a point. 

Marta has it practically memorized by this point, but she still reads the opening paragraph anyway, lets her eyes linger over the photograph of Harlan and her mother chatting joyfully with some of the little kids that had led the procession through town, their excitement obvious, even in that photograph. 

Christmas had been quiet but good, just as Harlan promised. No poisonous Thrombeys, no dramatics, just Harlan and Wanetta and Fran being introduced to her family’s traditions, and her family making room for them at the table in all kinds of ways. They’d taken Harlan to see the Las Posadas procession arriving at the church, Harlan chuckling at the sight of the tiny children playacting as Joseph and the Virgin Mary. “The poor girl’s got a fake belly that’s as wide as she is tall!” Harlan had whispered in her mother’s ear. 

And they’d had a rich and full Christmas Eve, all of Harlan’s friends invited over to look at Harlan and his new wife, and leaving full of her mother and Fran’s cooking, tamales and ponche at the table along with brussel sprouts and fruitcake soaked in brandy. Everyone had been friendly and kind, Harlan had been at his most expansive and charming, and there were no unwelcome guests lurking in the woods. 

It had been a lovely reprieve, but now it’s New Year’s Eve and the debt is now due: they’ll have to host Harlan’s family, along with the same group of people that had come to Christmas. 

It won’t be like they’re outnumbered, not this time. Alice has a friend coming by for a little bit, D.C has promised to come with her wife, even Father Gutierrez is stopping by. 

And yet, Marta has the memory of a dozen different Thrombey family dinners in her head, where she was silent and helpless before the Thrombeys’ unthinking spite and prejudice, and the idea of her mother and Alice having to face that humiliation, with a crowd of people watching—

“I liked that article,” Harlan says from behind her.

Marta knew he was approaching, of course, but she smiles and turns around. “So did I, it was nice of you to have it framed,” she says, and chuckles as she notices the powdered sugar scattered across his sweater, with even more telltale signs around his mouth. “How did you get the buñuelos past Mama?”

“Slight of hand and skullduggery,” Harlan says loftily, then relents when Marta eyes him. “Your mother took pity on me and offered me one, Alice gave me another two.” He looks at her for a moment and says, “You’re not looking forward to tonight at all, are you.”

It’s not a question, and the gentle way he says it leaves no room for accusation, but Marta still wants to apologize anyway. “I get nervous about these things.”

“No nerves tonight,” Harlan says gently, taking her by the shoulders. “Remember now--shoulders back, chin up. There is nothing and no one who can touch you tonight.”

Marta smiles, reassured at last. “The same to you, you know,” she says softly. “You’re one of us now, remember?”

Harlan’s gentle smile is lovely to see. “Of course, my dear,” he says, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m not likely to forget.”

*

A few hours into the party, and Marta has to admit, she’s surprised to find that Harlan’s optimism is well-founded; she and her family are actually having a good time tonight. 

She thinks that Harlan must have sent a warning to all of his friends and allies tonight, because there’s always one or two of Harlan’s friends circling around her mother or Harlan or both, like benevolent guards to ward off any awkwardness or hostilities from the Thrombeys. Harlan’s writer friend, Owen, makes a point of raving about her mother’s cooking, trying to coax the recipe for the pozole from her (even though her mother doesn’t have any of her recipes down and cooks to taste every time). “Delicious,” he says, mouth full of food. “You’ll have to roll me to my car at the end of the night!”

Alice is showing her friend from school around the house; she and Gavin are busy taking dozens and dozens of photographs for Instagram around the house, each more dramatic than the last. Marta’s been caught up in a very nice discussion with D.C about all the inaccuracies they see on television when it comes to both medicine and the law. 

“Nobody ever does CPR correctly on TV!” Marta grumbles to D.C as she refills her cup of ponche, and offers another cup to D.C as well. “They hold their arms entirely wrong!”

“Wait, how do you hold your arms?” D.C asks curiously, so Marta sets her cup on a nearby table and demonstrates how to lock your elbows when you’re putting pressure on someone’s chest, and it’s not until she picks up her cup again that she realizes that Meg’s been watching her glumly from her nearby seat in an armchair. 

Marta flushes a little bit, but doesn’t wave to Meg, instead turning to D.C. and asking about the most ridiculous legal error she’s seen on television, which turns into the drinking game she had in law school with her classmates over episodes of Ally McBeal. “Honestly, I’m amazed we didn’t need our stomachs pumped…”

Though most of her attention is on D.C’s explanation of how no TV show ever gets the closing statements during a trial right, she still keeps a wary eye on the Thrombeys, who’ve circled warily around the edges of the party all night, even as they stuff their faces full of food. 

To Marta’s surprise, Linda has made an effort; she’s been stiffly polite to Marta’s mother when she’d arrived, without Richard for once, and unlike her brother, has not sulked all night. Joni is floating around like her usual self, if her compliments towards the food have been occasionally awkward for everyone (she keeps overpronouncing _everything_ ), at least she’s not openly hostile. 

But Walt...Walt has been the worst, by far. He’d barely touched the food all evening, had hardly opened his mouth except to guzzle down the booze, and every few moments, Marta feels the pinprick of his sullen glares, focused on her. 

Even so, it’s not Walt that Marta’s really worried about, not tonight. 

Once again, despite herself, Marta’s gaze slides over to where Ransom is leaning against the fireplace, a cup of ponche in his hand, a plate piled high with buñuelos next to him. He somehow has managed to avoid smearing powdered sugar all over himself, the bastard, and as Marta glares at him, he glances over and smirks, lifting his cup in an ironic salute. 

“Everything all right, Marta?” D.C asks carefully, and Marta quickly focuses herself back on her actual guest tonight, rather than the perpetual stone in her shoe. 

“Yes, sorry,” she says, and explains in a low voice, “It’s just Harlan’s family. I always get nervous around them.”

“Mm,” D.C. says, understanding. “Holidays are tough. My wife and I went down to Virginia for Christmas, and just like every year before, the dirty laundry got aired before we could even put our presents underneath the tree. Every family’s got their rough spots.” She pauses, then concedes, “Although some have more than most.”

“You’re telling me,” Marta says, wincing as she sees Walt drunkenly interrupt Harlan’s conversation with Father Gutierrez. Harlan smoothes it over, of course, walking off with Walt and waving off her mother’s anxious look as he slips off with his son. 

Marta’s long been practiced at ignoring conversations that no human should be able to hear. It’s both a matter of practicality and good manners, at least that’s what her mother always taught her. 

And yet, even as she’s chatting with D.C and her wife, who rejoins them after escaping Joni’s fragrant clutches, Marta can’t help but hear Walt’s sharp voice as he lectures his father on Blood Like Wine, on the supposed risk of having Marta assisting with the company, and then, as Walt’s voice rises, she’s not the only one who can hear them, everyone in the house can hear them now, humans and werewolves alike.

“Dad, you’re being a fool—“

“You have no room to discuss foolishness, not with the way you’re behaving,” Harlan says, his voice sharp with exasperation. The hum of the room gets louder, people raising their voices in an attempt to cover up the sound of the argument, futile though it is.

“You don’t know what they are!” Walt yells. “I’ve found them out, Donna and I, we _know—_ “

Marta’s heart feels like it stops in her chest, and Harlan cuts through with an ice-cold, “Enough!” Into the silence, Harlan murmurs, more quietly but just as cold, “That is quite enough from you. No, not another word.”

But then, of all people, Ransom comes in, gracefully making his way to Harlan and Walt, saying lowly, “Hey, come on Walt, let’s get some fresh air—“

But Walt won’t take the bait, angrily shouting as he shakes off Ransom’s hand, “Get your hands off me—“

The room has gone quiet at last, everyone unable to ignore Walt’s tantrum now. “Don’t be stupid,” Ransom says, annoyed. “You’re already causing a scene, you want to make things worse? Go outside and have a cigar, cool off already.”

He claps a restraining hand on Walt’s arm and practically pushes him out of the room. 

The noise in the room starts to rise up again, their polite guests doing their best to act as if everything is normal, even as Donna and Jacob skitter out after Walt and don’t return, even as the sound of their car roaring off into the distance can be heard over the sound of the music playing in the room. 

*

Later that night, Marta is by the folly near the patio, drinking in the cool air and staring up at the stars. It takes an effort for her not to turn around as she hears footsteps approaching behind her, but she manages it, just barely. 

Ransom’s voice is deep and relaxed as he says, “You know, Meg’s been sulking all night. Think she misses having your attention, Cabrera.”

Marta finally turns to look at him, clutching the blanket scarf around her a little tighter. “What do you want now, Ransom?”

Ransom lifts his champagne glass. “Can’t a guy wish his future benefactress a happy New Year?” 

“Benefactress?” Marta echoes dubiously. 

Ransom smirks. “Would you prefer sugar mama?”

Marta makes a face, and he just laughs. “Charming as ever,” she grumbles, and turns away to look out at the dark shadows of the trees. She thinks that Ransom will go back inside to enjoy the warmth of the house, now that he’s needled her, but he stays outside, his breath coming in white puffs in the chill of the December night, contentedly sipping his hot ponche. 

The sound of a car approaching is in Marta’s ear, and to distract herself, Marta asks abruptly, “Why did you intervene earlier? With Walt and Harlan, why did you step in?”

Ransom shrugs his shoulders easily. “Why not?” Marta gives him a dubious look, and he says, impatiently, “Like I’m going to be on Walt’s side about anything. Come on, Marta, you know me better than that.” 

“No,” Marta agrees, “You’ve always been on your own side, and no one else’s.”

Ransom’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t argue. Instead he drinks from his glass, and asks Marta, “So, now that you’re my patron and all, I figure I can go ahead and ask--what’s your deal?”

“My deal?” Marta asks. 

Ransom gestures at her vaguely, glass in hand. “You know, the strength, the Spidey-sense of whenever I’m around...didn’t get bitten by any radioactive spiders lately, have you?” 

Marta’s pulse jumps, but she keeps her face blank. “No.”

“Shady government experiments?” Ransom offers next. 

“You’ve been watching too many superhero movies,” Marta retorts, lifting her chin. 

Ransom smiles a little, looking at her. He steps forward, not too close, just enough, and asks softly, “So you’re just an ordinary girl, nothing special about you at all?”

He’s changed his cologne, and the new scent is sharper, cleaner almost. It lingers in Marta’s mind, even as she tries to think of a path between the easy lie that will give her away, and the dangerous truth. All the while, the car is getting closer and closer still, Walt’s angry muttering a sour note in Marta’s head. 

Marta says lightly, deflecting, “Well, my mother’s always told me that I’m special, but I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

In the distance, Walt angrily slams his car door shut, and Ransom jumps at the sound. 

“You’d better go back inside,” Marta says quietly. 

“Trying to get rid of me, are you?” Ransom asks, stubbornly staying put, even though Marta can hear him shivering now from the cold. 

But Walt’s coming around the house now, circling to the back where they are, his heartbeat quick with adrenaline, his breathing coming in harsh huffs, and the hairs on the back of Marta’s neck rise up on instinct. 

“Ransom, I’m not kidding, go back inside,” Marta says, because whatever Walt is planning now, it cannot be good, and she doesn’t trust Ransom to de-escalate it again, not this time. 

“What, is someone coming?” Ransom asks, and then Walt turns the corner and starts marching towards them through the snow, and Ransom goes, “Oh, holy fuck.”

The crossbow Walt is carrying in his arms is black and gleaming in the house lights, already loaded with a metal arrow, and Marta is torn--torn between the immediate urge to fly at the threat in front of her, and remembering Ransom behind her, in easy sight of Walt, shaking from the cold and from his drunken rage. 

“Walt, what is this?” Marta asks lowly, forcing herself to stay as calm as possible, thinking of all the people in the house, all the people within easy reach of that crossbow if it goes off. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Ransom yelps, not trying to stay calm at all. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

Walt’s trembling from head to toe. “No, no, I’m doing what needs to be done,” he says, shaking his head as if to convince himself. “I’m protecting my family, my father, it needs to be done.”

Marta shakes her head, holding out a hand to Walt, her free arm spread out wide in front of Ransom as a futile shield. In the house, she can hear her mother moving with alarm, she can hear Alice’s feet thundering down the stairs, she knows they’re coming, all she needs is just another few moments, just to stall Walt long enough--

“This doesn’t need to happen,” Marta says to him, taking a slow step forward, her body tensing as she prepares to spring forward. 

Walt nods his head, and his body goes still and calm, his decision made at last. “Oh, yes it does,” he says, his voice hissing and sure, full of spite. “ _Beast_.” And in the fraction of a second, Walt pulls the crossbow’s trigger, and lets the bolt fly right towards Marta’s chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I definitely did not mean to take so long to update, but first there was a US election to fret over, then Yuletide and completing my master's degree, and then...well, everything. So here is this chapter, late but hopefully still welcome.

It takes no time at all for the bolt to reach its target, and at the same time, it feels like an eternity. 

Marta is frozen, stuck between the instinct to move, to run or duck or attack, and knowing that if she does, the bolt will almost certainly hit Ransom, standing just behind her. 

So Marta holds still, and the bolt finds its target in the center of her body, right below the sternum. 

It hurts. First, there is just the shock of impact, the metal slicing through her new sweater, specifically bought for tonight, through her flesh, lodging deep inside--and then comes the white-hot pain, radiating outwards, every inch of her body howling in protest. 

Gasping, Marta reaches a hand up to touch the shaft of the arrow, the arrow that is inside her, and then she lifts her gaze to look at the man who just attacked her. 

Walt, coward that he is, is frozen in place, too shocked to follow up and press his advantage. 

He called her a beast. 

Fine then. Let him see how a beast responds when attacked. 

Marta lets her fangs drop down, gleaming and sharp, lets her eyes glow hunter’s moon yellow from the force of her rage. “Walt,” she growls, deep and furious. “You should run now.”

Walt jumps, face stricken with horror, and then he starts scrambling away, the crossbow falling from his hand as he thrashes through the snow. 

Once he’s gone, Marta slowly sinks to her knees, gasping for air. God, this hurts. 

“Marta?” Ransom is still there, he hasn’t run off screaming. He sounds shocked, he smells of fear-sweat and panic. 

Her hand closes again around the shaft, the metal feeling cold and slick in her hand, from sweat or worse. 

She doesn’t have the breath to say anything, she just sets her teeth against the agony and pulls the bolt out of her solar plexus in one sharp motion, tearing it free.

The noise Marta makes is inhuman, and she crumples into the wet snow in a rush of pain and blood, breathing shallowly through it as she waits for her body to heal. 

“Fuck,” Ransom breathes out, stunned. His breathing coming in rapid-fire puffs of air, he leans down over her, his broad body a shadow over her face, and then she feels him pressing down on her chest, putting pressure on the gaping wound knitting itself together. 

Marta grunts in pain, and her mind belatedly registers Ransom babbling lowly, “Fuck, fuck, why did you pull it out, what kind of shitty nurse _are_ you? Fuck!”

Marta takes as deep a breath as she can, and then another, each breath coming easier than the one before it. “Ransom.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me save your life before Grandad thinks I did this!” Ransom hisses at her, shifting his hold on Marta to reach for his cell phone, tucked away in the back of his jeans. 

Marta rips it out of his hand and crushes it in her fist, tossing the crumpled phone as far as she can into the trees. 

Ransom chokes at that, and it’s easy work for Marta to shove him back on his heels and away from her. “You aren’t going to call anyone,” she tells him, still winded.

“Holy shit,” Ransom breathes out, staring up at her in disbelief as Marta slowly gets to her feet. 

Marta is a little unsteady, and she feels exhausted--healing takes a lot out of you, especially when it’s an injury that serious--but she can stand, she can walk, and she needs to move to safety, _now._

And somehow get Ransom to come with her. 

“What the fuck is happening with your eyes right now?” Ransom asks. “Are they _glowing?_ ”

Shit. Marta blinks and comes back to herself, and barks out crisply, “Get the crossbow and bring it with us.”

Ransom stares at her, and Marta repeats, “ _Go_.”

He goes and gets it, and Marta futilely kicks at the snow where her blood has spilled. Ransom is still a few feet away when Marta says into the air, “Mama, Alice, I’m okay. I’m coming back to the house now.”

Inside the house, she can hear the terrified heartbeats of her mother and sister, who know something is wrong but are surrounded by watching humans, start to ease at last. 

Ransom jogs back to her through the snow, crossbow in hand--he carries it harmlessly by his side--but Marta keeps a wary gaze on him anyway. “Look, I get that you want to keep this quiet, but you’re literally covered in blood right now, I don’t think you can get back to the house.”

“Leave that to me,” Marta says calmly. “Follow me, and don’t make any noise.” She pauses, and then adds, “Make as little noise as you can.”

And Marta is proven right--it is the work of a few moments to slip into the house, Ransom on her heels, pausing for just the right moment to slip through the doors, to slip up the stairs, all without being seen. It helps that her mother is quick-thinking enough to grab everyone’s attention through a toast, clinking her glass and launching straight into an impromptu speech about family, and new beginnings--

It’s only once she’s inside her room, the door shut carefully behind her, that Marta starts to shiver as the warmth of the house begins to seep back into her bones. 

She stares blankly at Ransom, carrying the crossbow still as he stands in the center of the cozy room Harlan had picked out for her, looking completely out of place among her comforter and bookcases and nightstand.

Ransom is looking right back at her, wild-eyed, his gaze fixed on the blood radiating out from her sweater. 

“I need to change,” Marta mutters.

“Hang on a second first,” Ransom says slowly, still staring at her sweater. He starts to approach slowly, hand outstretched--the hand still stained with her blood. 

“Don’t,” Marta says sharply, as he reaches out to her, his hand only a few inches away from her abdomen. 

Ransom licks his lips, saying quietly, “It’s okay, I just want to see.”

Marta inhales sharply, but she knows there’s no help for it. She lifts up her sweater and shows the unbroken skin beneath, drying smears of blood everywhere. 

“Jesus Christ,” Ransom says, very quietly. His heartbeat is thundering in Marta’s ears as he reaches out, fingers stretched--

Marta lashes her hand out and grips his wrist tightly, stopping him from touching her, his fingers millimeters away from her bare skin. “No,” she warns, quietly. 

Ransom doesn’t struggle against her grip, his body pliant and accepting, even as his pulse is thrumming against her fingers. “How the fuck is this even possible?” he asks, staring at her in wonder. 

For just a moment, not even that, just for a _millisecond_ \--his expression reminds Marta of the day that Harlan found out, the awe on his face as her mother shifted in front of him. 

Marta swallows and drops the hem of her sweater, pushing Ransom back and away from her. “I need to clean up. You should take that crossbow and--”

She means to tell Ransom to shove it underneath her bed, or in the closet, somewhere hidden until she can figure out her next steps, but is distracted by the sound of--yes, it’s Fran approaching, her quick steps out in the hallway, coming closer--

And then Fran comes in, knocking quickly on the door she’s already opening, saying, “Marta? Alice sent me up here to check on--”

Fran cuts herself off mid-sentence at the sight in front of her, Marta covered in her own blood, Ransom holding a crossbow and standing right next to her, perfectly aghast for one frozen moment before her face twists in outrage as she hisses, furiously, “ _Hugh_.”

Oh, boy. “Fran,” Marta says quickly, “Fran, he didn’t--“

But Fran is beyond listening, seeming to swell up to twice her size as she launches herself forward and starts to hit Ransom with her fists, haphazard but determined, demanding, “What did you do to her, you little shit? You fucking asshole, how dare you, how _dare_ you!”

“Holy fuck, what is this?” Ransom demands, attempting to shield himself with his free hand and failing miserably. “Marta, call off the attack dog!”

“Fran, Fran, it’s okay!” Marta insists. “Ransom didn’t do this to me, it was Walt!”

It takes another second for Fran to hear this, and then she pauses, mid-pummelling, to turn back towards Marta, head titled as though she didn’t hear Marta quite right. “Walt? Walt did this to you?”

Marta nods, dimly hearing her sister (who of course is eavesdropping downstairs) curse loudly, and then say, “Sorry, Wanetta!”

“Oh, that fucker,” Fran hisses out furiously, and then jerks her thumb back at Ransom. “But what is _this_ fucker doing here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ransom says, thoroughly exasperated by now. “Helping?”

“Helping?” Fran echoes incredulously. “Since when have _you_ , Hugh Ransom Drysdale, _ever_ helped _anyone_ in your entire life--”

They keep going back and forth like that, sniping at each other, even as Marta wearily heads to her attached bathroom (relatively small by the standards of the house but still hers) and strips out of her blood-soaked sweater and scrubs off the worst of the blood with a damp washcloth. 

She catches sight of her own face in the mirror, her skin pale and her eyes dark from stress and exhaustion, and lets out a slow breath. 

Once she’s cleaned up though, she realizes that she doesn’t have a new top to wear, and carefully pokes her head out to say, “Fran? Can you get me something to wear?”

“Of course,” Fran says quickly, and snaps at Ransom, “You can get out--”

“I’m good here, thanks,” Ransom insists. 

“Asshole,” Fran mutters, but she goes to Marta’s drawer and finds something appropriate for Marta to wear within just a few minutes of searching. 

Once she’s appropriately dressed again, Marta comes out of the bathroom, tucking her hair behind her ears as she surveys both Fran and Ransom warily. The crossbow’s no longer in sight, and Ransom, reading her glances around the room, says dryly, “Stashed the would-be murder weapon in the closet.”

“Good,” Marta says. 

Ransom nods in agreement, and then says, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, and established that I didn’t try to kill anyone--”

“Not tonight at least,” Fran mutters. 

“--can I get a straight answer, finally?” Ransom finishes, with a dark look at Fran. He quickly focuses his attention back on Marta, however, blue eyes bright and intent. “Marta. What are you.”

He’s going to be relentless about this, Marta already knows. There’s no more plausible deniability left, it disappeared the moment that Marta pulled that arrow out of her chest. And even if Ransom has been...shockingly helpful up to this point, any denial, any attempt to lie, will only turn him back into an enemy. 

There is no escape from this, no way out but through. 

“I’m a werewolf,” Marta says, forcing the words out. “Werewolves are real, I’m one of them, that’s how I’ve been able to do everything that you couldn’t figure out or explain.”

Ransom is very still, staring at her. “Bullshit,” he says automatically, but it’s flat, the denial automatic but clearly something not even he believes. 

Marta raises a weary eyebrow at him. “What, you can believe in radioactive spiders but not werewolves?”

Ransom shakes his head a little, as if to clear his head, and tilts his head. “You’re serious. You...this is real, right now. You’re here, telling me you’re a werewolf.”

“Ransom,” Marta says, so tired, but pushing a little more force into her voice. “Think for a second about everything that has happened these last few months, and then ask yourself if I would bother lying about this, now of all times?”

“She’s not even puking,” Fran mutters, sullen but still backing Marta up. 

“Jesus,” Ransom says softly to himself, then repeats it again, at a louder volume. “Jesus--Jesus _fucking_ Christ--”

Marta sighs. “Stay with him until he calms down, Fran,” she says. 

“Wait, wait, you’re leaving?” Ransom demands as she turns for the door. 

“I need to get downstairs before I’m missed,” Marta says levelly. “My family’s going to be worried about me.”

Ransom squares his shoulders. “Fine, then I’m coming with you.”

Marta raises an eyebrow, dubious. “Really? Because it looks like you need some time to adjust. I can’t have you freaking out downstairs in front of everyone.”

“No, I’m good. Werewolves are real, got it,” Ransom insists. His heartbeat jumps a little as he says it, and his eyes are still a little too wide, but he looks mostly normal, if you were a human and couldn’t smell the blood on him.

Speaking of. “Go wash your hands and then we can go downstairs together,” Marta concedes.

Ransom goes off to do it immediately, and the second he’s gone, Fran mouths _what the fuck_ very dramatically.

_I don’t know,_ Marta mouths back, and it feels like the truest thing she’s said tonight.

*

The rest of the evening has a horrifically surreal edge to it. Somehow it's still not midnight yet, so Marta is forced to come downstairs and behave normally, when less than half an hour ago, she had an arrow sticking through her abdomen. 

Unfortunately, Ransom is right behind her as she comes down the stairs, and multiple Thrombeys notice the two of them reappearing together. She can see the exact moment that they all jump to exactly the wrong conclusion, from Joni's eyebrows flying up as she makes an exaggerated "O" with her mouth, to Meg's horrified eyes, to Linda's deliberately blank expression.

It doesn't matter, and Marta turns to Alice, rushing to her side with obvious relief, accepting her sister's quick and strong embrace as Alice whispers, "Oh my God, Marta, tell me you're okay."

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Marta says, squeezing her back before letting go.

“What the shit--” Alice starts, then catches sight of Ransom, still lurking nearby, and scowls furiously at him. 

“I’m going to check on Mama and Harlan,” Marta says quietly. “Don’t start anything, okay?”

“Hmpf,” Alice grumbles, but she doesn’t immediately start yelling the second Marta walks away, so that’s a positive. 

Her mother, aware of the human guests around them, doesn't immediately burst out with questions, but Marta can feel the tension in her body as she pulls Marta in for a quick embrace, can hear the too-rapid rhythm of her heart as she drops a kiss on Marta's temple and murmurs, "Estás bien, mija?"

"I'm fine," Marta says, but has to add, "We have to talk, though, after everyone's gone."

Her mother nods, saying, "Go get some food, keep your strength up."

Marta tries to do just that, but gets waylaid by Joni, who lays her soft hands on Marta's shoulders in an overly-perfumed embrace as she blithely says, "Marta, honey, I'm _so_ glad I caught you, it's been ages and we really need to catch up--”

_Do we?_ Marta can’t help but think, overwhelmed by Joni’s perfume in her nostrils, but she breathes through her mouth and says, as mildly as she can, “Catch up on what?”

Joni’s laugh trills in her ears. “On everything, silly! Now, I know you’ve been assisting Harlan with the publishing company, and can I just say, it’s so great to see you lean in like this, embrace the opportunity…”

As Joni rambles, Marta hastily grabs at one of the trays held by one of the caterers, water chestnuts wrapped in bacon, and shoves two of them in her mouth at once. 

“And I was thinking, you know, how great it would be if Meg came in--"

“Meg?” Marta repeats, too surprised to keep from speaking. 

“Yes,” Joni says eagerly. “You know, I just think she’d do so well in the publishing field, and what better place to get her start than the family business?”

“But she’s still in school,” Marta says, and sees the flash of annoyance on Joni’s face. Driven on by her hunger and desire to get away from that perfume, Marta adds, “But of course, you should go and ask Harlan, see what he says. Excuse me--I really need to eat something.”

She slips out of Joni’s grasp and heads out of the parlour, down the hallway into the kitchen, where she ignores the looks from the caterers, simply asking, “I’m sorry, is there a place where I can sit?”

Ransom finds her there, not two minutes later, burying herself in slices of turkey and beef, slathered all over in rich gravy. He smirks at her, but Marta is too busy with her food to care, only glaring, cheeks stuffed, when he pulls a spare chair up to sit with her. 

“And I’m hungry like the wolf,” Ransom says softly, chuckling.

Busy cutting up her meat, Marta does nothing but glare at him; Ransom holds up his hands, but he says in arguably a softer voice, “You can’t leave me hanging here, Marta. I need some answers.”

Marta rolls her eyes, and pointedly glances around, noticing all the employees doing their work, and says, "Unless you can talk in Spanish, your questions will have to wait. Even then, they’ll still have to wait."

“But you are going to tell me,” Ransom says, intently. Marta just stares him down, until the faintest hint of uncertainty appears. “Right?”

“Yes,” Marta concedes. “But you still have to wait.”

She turns her attention back to her meal, but Ransom still doesn’t leave, his gaze heavy on her bowed head. Finally, Marta wipes her mouth with a napkin, and reaches for the wine glass. 

She tips her head back as she drinks every last drop of it, the taste of the red wine rich and heavy on her tongue, and when she puts the empty glass down, she looks squarely at Ransom’s face, and lets her eyes flash yellow gold, just for a fraction of a second. 

No human would notice the hitch in Ransom’s breathing, but Marta does. 

“You’ll wait,” Marta says quietly.

Ransom looks at her, and then asks slowly, “I never stood a chance against you, did I?”

“No,” Marta agrees, squaring her shoulders. “No, you didn’t.”

*

“Walt did _what_?” Harlan thunders. 

“Shh, shh,” Marta cautions, glancing behind her at the closed door nervously. The five of them have all crowded themselves into Harlan’s attic office after the party had come to a close, everyone driving off around one-thirty or so, but there are still caterers cleaning up, and Linda is staying over tonight, as are Joni and Meg and Wanetta.

If yet _another_ Thrombey finds out about them…

Marta jerks away from that horrible possibility, but the reality in front of them is bad enough, her mother and sister horrified, Harlan spluttering with rage, Fran wringing her hands--

And Ramson standing in the corner, his arms folded over his broad chest and his face alert as he watches all of them closely.

“I cannot believe this is happening,” her mother says, dazed. “Marta, you’re sure that Walt--”

“He called me a beast, Mama,” Marta says. “And then he shot me in the chest with an arrow. He has to know, what else could explain it?”

Ransom speaks up for the first time. “Well, he can’t know everything. Otherwise he’d have tried something that actually worked.”

Everyone, Marta included, turns to stare at him. Ransom shrugs at them all, a show of innocence, and says, “Hey, I’m just saying. That arrow barely slowed Marta down.”

“Wonderful,” Harlan says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “My would-be murderer is now criticizing the technique of the other would-be killer. God, what a family!”

“Ransom’s right,” Marta says, and as they all turn to send her incredulous looks, she says, “He’s awful, but he’s right. I don’t think Walt really planned this--he was drunk, he didn’t have a weapon that would’ve worked, and he ran the moment he got scared. This was an impulse.”

“What if he has the impulse again?” Fran asks. 

“We’ll kick his ass!” Alice insists, pounding her fist into her hand.

“And then what?” her mother asks. “What’s to stop him from coming back again, and again, until finally he gets it right and--”

“There are ways of taking care of him,” Ransom offers up calmly, and Marta shoots him a sharp look. 

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t,” she tells him, and Ransom lifts his hands up in another show of innocence. 

“Fine, fine.” He looks from Marta to her family, and then back again. “Walt’ll pop back up again soon anyway, he doesn’t have the patience to play the long game.”

“How is that helpful?” Marta’s mother asks, looking at him with dislike. 

“Look at it this way,” Ransom says, nodding his head in Marta’s direction. “If Marta can handle me, there’s no way she can’t handle Walt.”

It says something to have _that_ be the most comforting thing anyone has said so far. 

As they’re discussing how to stay alert when and if Walt comes back again, Ransom yawns theatrically and asks Fran, “So where am I staying tonight?”

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Fran says, aghast.

Ransom opens his eyes wide. “What, you’re going to send me out in the middle of the night, all alone with a would-be murderer on the loose?”

“ _You’re_ a would-be murderer!” Alice protests.

Marta breathes in and out deeply through her nose, and looks to Harlan, who is already watching her. He dips his head a little, the small nod indicating that it’s going to have to be her call here. 

“Ransom, you can stay here tonight,” Marta says, holding up a hand when Alice and Fran start to protest. “But I want you to remember this,” she continues, looking right into Ransom’s face, staring into his blue eyes as she hears his heartbeat start to quicken. “Everything you do, I’ll hear. I’m stronger than you, I’m faster than you. So if you do try anything tonight, not only I will be there to stop you, I can easily throw you out through the nearest window, no matter how high up we are. Understood?”

Marta is dimly aware of everyone else watching them now, Alice letting out a low whistle, but she can’t focus on them, she has to focus on Ransom, his too-quick heartbeat and his alert blue eyes. 

At last, Ransom quirks his mouth upwards in a ghost of a smile. “Not every day a guy receives threats of defenestration, but yeah. I hear you, Cabrera.”

“Good,” Marta says, not letting herself sigh with relief. “I think we should all go to bed now. There’s not much else we can do tonight.”

*

It’s the strangest New Year’s Day that Marta has ever had. 

Thankfully, Harlan had somehow managed to usher Joni, Meg, and Linda out of the house early in the morning, showing them out while Marta hid in the kitchen, drinking coffee to compensate for the lack of sleep she’d had last night. 

Everyone is fairly quiet over the spread of a late breakfast at the table--Alice and her mother are glaring at Ransom, who noisily munches on his muesli and keeps watching Marta from across the table, as she quietly eats her croissant and scrambled eggs and doesn’t look at anyone. 

Harlan’s phone chimes with a text, and Marta looks up as he reads it, not liking the speeding up of his heartbeat, or the angry huffs of breath he lets out. “Harlan, what is it?”

“You were right,” Harlan says, his voice tight with anger. “Walt hasn’t waited long.”

He tosses his phone down on the table, and everyone crowds around him to look at what the text says. It is from Walt, and it reads only, _We need to talk. We’ll be at the house by 3PM._

“Motherfucker,” Alice breathes out, then says automatically, “Lo siento, Mama.”

Her mother breathes out hard through her nose. “No,” she says, her voice sharp. “No, motherfucker sounds right.”

As Alice gawks at their mother, Ransom lets out a low whistle, before asking, “Okay, do we have any guns in the house?”

All of them stare at Ransom. “We are not adding _guns_ to the situation,” Marta says sharply. 

Alice is even more blunt. “Nobody’s going to trust you enough to put a gun in your hand, asshole.”

“Oh, okay, so we’re just going to let the other asshole who showed up here and drunkenly shot Marta with a crossbow come inside, and we’re all just going to be unarmed when he does?” Ransom tosses back at them.

“We are never unarmed,” Marta’s mother says, giving him a dark look. 

Harlan is still sitting there with a frown on his face, before saying abruptly. “Ransom’s right. Much as I hate to admit it.” He looks to Ransom and says, “Security has shotguns locked up in the office, we can have Fran bring one here.”

“Harlan,” her mother protests, but Harlan just shakes his head. 

“I’ll be damned before I let Walt hurt any of you again,” he says, and Marta knows he means every word of that. 

And so, when Walt arrives at the house, with Donna in tow, Harlan greets him in the library with the shotgun lying across his lap, his mother and Alice standing either side of him. Marta is sitting behind the desk, with the crossbow in front of her. Somehow she keeps her face calm, despite seeing the man who tried to kill her just last night in front of her, having the smell of him in her nostrils and not being able to chase him as her prey--

Beneath the table, her nails shift into claws, but Marta keeps her fury behind a mask. Her mother and sister aren’t doing so well, Marta’s mother’s body rigid with fury, and Alice breathing lowly, the sound nearly a growl in Marta’s ears. 

Walt glowers at all of them, but he avoids looking directly at Marta. “Dad, come on. Is this all necessary?”

“It wasn’t necessary for you to try and kill Marta last night with an arrow, but here we are regardless,” Harlan says, each word sharp enough to cut. “Now what do you want, Walter.”

Walt stares directly at his father and says, “I want...I want everything to be the way it was. Myself, as the rightful head of Blood Like Wine, and you safe and free of these--”

“I would be very careful with what you say next,” Harlan says, deathly calm, as the blood starts to pound in Marta’s temples. 

Walt swallows, but the fury on his face is clear as he spits out, “These people. Dad, they’re dangerous, you don’t know what they are--”

“I know exactly who they are,” Harlan says, reaching out to touch first Alice’s hand, and then the hand of Marta’s mother. “They have never lied to me. And unlike you, _they_ have never lashed out with violence to seize what was never theirs!”

Walt stutters in disbelief, “You--you _know_?”

“Aaaooo,” Alice lets out in a mock-howl. 

Walt jerks around to stare at all of them, at Ransom who is sitting by the piano, before bursting out, “And they’re still here?”

“Where else should they be?” Harlan asks. “This is their home.”

Donna steps forward, and says, sweet but urgent, “Harlan, if you’re frightened of them, if you’re intimidated--”

“Me? Intimidated?” Harlan repeats, incredulous. 

“We can take care of this!” Donna says, eyes alight with determination, her heartbeat coming quicker. “I have family, friends, we have powers and abilities--”

“What, you’re going to try and bully us on Facebook?” Alice retorts. 

Donna draws herself up and says, in dramatic and theatric tones, “I come from a long line of witches and I will not tolerate your disrespect any longer!”

“Witches?” Harlan echos, disbelieving. “Claudia, what the hell is she talking about?” 

“There are fucking witches now too?” Ransom asks, leaning forward. Outside the library where Fran is eavesdropping by the door, Marta can hear Fran hissing, “Oh my God, witches?”

“Bullshit,” Alice says, bristling.

“Excuse me, do not _swear_ at me--”

“No, I’m sorry, my daughter is right. This is nonsense,” Marta’s mother says, holding up a hand. 

“Because witches don’t exist, correct?” Harlan asks, very warily.

“Oh, witches are real,” Marta’s mother says. “It’s just that Donna is not one of them.”

“Jesus Christ, what next?” Ransom asks himself. “If Dracula and the Easter Bunny come through this door next, I’m done, I’m fucking out.”

As Donna’s face slowly turns red from embarrassment, Marta explains, levelly, “We would have smelled it on you. Any magic, any spells. It’s easy for us to spot a witch, Donna, and you are not a witch.”

Donna’s face is redder than Marta has ever seen it before--and Marta has seen the Thrombeys at their Fourth of July parties where the alcohol is flowing and no one is touching the food. “I,” she says through gritted teeth, “am the daughter and sister of powerful witches--”

“But you don’t have any power of your own,” Marta realizes slowly, getting up to her feet. “Otherwise it would have been you last night who attacked me, rather than Walt and his crossbow.” 

“So what, Donna’s a dud?” Ransom asks, face lighting up with glee. 

Her face twisting with anger, Donna turns to him and practically shrieks, “How dare you! I am _not_ a dud! I am _not_!”

That’s clearly hit a nerve, Marta notes. 

Harlan raps his knuckles on the wooden armrest of his chair. “So,” he says sharply. “If Donna has no powers, then all of these threats are nothing more than theatrics that we can ignore.”

“We are not threatening you!” Donna yelps. “We are _protecting_ you from these beasts--”

“Call me a beast one more fucking time,” Alice snaps out. 

But Donna and Walt are too angry to stop themselves now, all of the bile they’ve kept in check spilling out, and Marta watches, her fists clenched at her side as Walt blusters, “Dad, you are going to do this--I want them _gone_ , I want my job and my company _back_ , and if you don’t--”

“If I don’t what?” Harlan asks, his voice low and dangerous, and somewhere in the toxic mix of self-righteousness, bigotry, and spoiled anger, Walt hears something in his father’s voice that shuts him up. 

Harlan gets up from his chair in one smooth motion, loosely holding the shotgun in one hand. “To think it comes to this,” he says, in that same low, dangerous voice. “Years of generosity, of patience, and I’m rewarded with this--two spoiled brats coming into my home and throwing a tantrum.” 

Donna sucks in an outraged breath, but Walt is frozen, eyes wide as he stares at his father as though he’s a stranger. “I gave you a job you were wildly unqualified for,” Harlan continues, staring at his son with a look Marta hopes to never receive herself. “I tolerated your binges, your entitled demands, and now you dare come in here and tell me what to do with my company? My family?”

“ _We_ are your family!” Walt shouts. 

“You are the selfish prick threatening people I care for!” Harlan thunders. “Threatening my wife and her children, for no other reason than your own greed and spite! To think my own son would become a greater villain than any character I ever wrote!” 

The stunned silence is broken by Ransom saying, with a low whistle and a clap of his hands, “Well, that’s you told.”

“Get out of my house,” Harlan says, deathly quiet. “And know that whatever awful tricks you try, you won’t succeed.”

Walt takes a stumbling step back, but Donna leans in, her face twisted into a sneer as she says, “Well. You’ll just have to see what _tricks_ we can manage, then.” She whirls around and takes Walt’s arm as they leave, murmuring to him in a low voice. 

Marta shuts out their voices and retreating footsteps, with an effort, and turns to look at everyone. Her mother and sister look overwhelmed, Harlan looks rather pale now that his wave of anger is receding, and Ransom--

“Fucking Sabrina The Not-So-Teenaged Witch over there seems to be gone,” he says cheerfully. “And now that they are, can I just ask, what the _fuck_? Witches? There are werewolves _and_ witches now?”

“Why not?” Alice brazens out. 

“Why not? Why--” Ransom checks himself, pauses, and then shrugs, laughing a little to himself. “Yeah, fuck it, why not.”

“What now?” Harlan asks quietly to Marta and her mother. “Is it true what Donna said? Could a witch--a real witch--be a threat to you?”

Marta’s mother grimaces, even as she takes Harlan’s hand to reassure him. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Don’t suppose there’s any chance she was lying about her family?” Harlan offers. 

Marta makes a face. “No, she was telling the truth there.” She looks at her mother and says slowly, “But...that doesn’t mean we can’t do anything to defend ourselves.”

Before she can elaborate, Ransom says, “Look, if you’re planning to cause a convenient accident, I’m with you, but you’ll need solid alibis at the least—“

“Dude,” Alice says, staring at him. “What is wrong with you?”

Marta sighs deeply. “Not every problem can be solved with murder, Ransom.”

“This could be,” Ransom mutters, but goes quiet in his chair and listens.

Marta says slowly, the plan coming to her as she speaks, “If Donna has witches on her side, fine. We can go and hire out some magic for our own.”

“You can do that?” Harlan asks, his worried expression momentarily lighting up with curiosity.

“Sure,” Marta says, with more confidence than she feels. To be fair, it’s not like she’s ever had to do this before, her family has always stayed to themselves, but after all...there is a reason her family moved to this small town in Massachusetts, and it wasn’t for the scenery.

“I think,” Marta says carefully, “that we need to hire a wizard, and I know who we should call.”

“Who, Harry fucking Potter?” Ransom asks, and Marta gives him a quelling look.

“No,” she says, with more patience than Ransom deserves. “Not a fictional character. He’s real, and he’s in the States. His name is Benoit Blanc.”

*

Of course, just saying you’re going to hire Benoit Blanc, legendary wizard, is not the same thing as actually doing it. For one thing, it’s not as if he’s in the phone book, or on Google.

So first, Marta has to call in the local witch. Or, well, witches. Even if they can’t or won’t help, Marta has to at least consult them first before asking them to call in an outsider. Marta calls them up the same day that Walt and Donna come by, and a little to her surprise, given her mother’s stories of the covens in Monterrey, James Elliott is both very polite to her on the phone and quite willing to come over the following day. 

Marta keeps calm when she tells everyone that the witches are coming over here, mostly because everyone else is freaking out so much that someone has to stay calm, and it looks like it's her.

"We're hanging out with witches now?" Alice yelps. 

"We're not hanging out with them, we are inviting them here to see if they can help us," Marta corrects, but hardly anyone is listening to her. 

"What do you even feed witches," Fran is muttering to herself, hands to her face, before turning to Marta's mother and asking anxiously, "Do they eat normal food?"

"We'll make tres leches, everyone likes that," her mother decides. 

"But what if they're lactose intolerant," Fran frets. 

"Then we can have a backup--"

"Guys, please," Marta interjects. "The food is not going to be a problem here, okay? We just need to be calm, and to be polite--"

"Never insult a bruja," her mother says to everyone. "The last feud I saw all started because someone bumped into someone else on the street and didn't even say sorry. It just kept going and going from there, and before everyone knew it, five people were permanently cursed, an engagement was broken, and three people's houses burned down--"

"Jesus, this sounds like the Mafia," Fran says, eyes wide. 

"Nah. Al Capone never cursed anyone to speak backwards for the rest of their life," Alice jokes. 

"What if we don't like them?" Ransom offers. "Is there a Yelp for witches?"

But this only draws everyone's attention to the other problem in the room, as Alice wrinkles her nose and says, "He's not going to be here, right? If we're needing to be all polite and sweet to these people, I don't trust Rich Asshole White Boy here," Marta can hear the capital letters in that, "to behave even a little bit."

"Oh come on," Ransom protests. "You can't try and kick me out now, not when things are starting to get good."

"Good?" Fran echoes in disbelief. 

Ransom pulls a face. "You know what I mean. Witches and wizards and shit. Besides, what if Walt and Donna are lurking around my place, waiting to cast a spell on me?"

"Nobody's after _you_ , dummy--"

Marta sighs loudly. "Ransom can stay." As Alice and Fran start to protest again, she says, "I'd rather have him here where we can keep an eye on him, than out there doing God knows what."

Nobody (except for Ransom) is pleased by this, but they eventually stop arguing over it, instead focusing on Fran and her mother's plans for how to woo the witches over to their side with food. 

Marta is about to go upstairs to talk to Harlan about what's happening, when Ransom follows her to the stairs and says, "Marta, wait."

Marta turns to look at him. All the levity is gone from his face, but the too-sharp interest isn't; he's looking at her now like she's the only thing he can even imagine paying attention to. 

"You honestly think these...witches are going to solve all your problems here?" he asks, voice low. As if her mother and sister won't be listening anyway. 

Marta narrows her eyes. “And what, should I trust you to fix things?”

Ransom shrugs. “I promise I can come up with a better plan than a crossbow and Walt stomping his feet like a two-year-old,” he says. 

“I’m very familiar with your plans,” Marta says dryly. “You still got caught, remember?”

Ransom, a little to Marta’s surprise, doesn’t bristle at the reminder of his failure, but just smirks at her. “Ah, but this time we’ll be on the same side.”

Marta wants to ask why he thinks they’re on the same side now, but then she has a brief sense-memory of Ransom’s hands pushing down on her open wound, the night that Walt attacked her, and checks herself. 

“Why are you here, Ransom?” Marta asks, turning to look at him. From this high up the stairs, Ransom has to tilt his head up to look her in the eye, and Marta likes that, the way his head is tilted just so to expose his throat. 

Ransom opens his mouth, and Marta says lightly, “And remember--I can hear it when you lie.”

He pauses, and shakes his head with a chuckle. “You think I didn’t mean it when I said I don’t want to be left out of the action?”

“I don’t think that’s your only reason for staying,” Marta says calmly. 

Ransom considers that, and concedes, “You are the only thing between me and my grandfather cutting me off without a cent. Maybe I’m trying to preserve the goose with the golden eggs.”

His heart is starting to speed up a little, and Marta presses, “And you’re on my side.”

“I’m certainly not on Walt’s,” he says, making a repulsed face. His mouth quirks as he adds, “And I’m not looking to get thrown out a window either.” He tilts his head and asks, faux-sweetly, “Good enough?”

“For now,” Marta concedes. Ransom’s still watching her with that too-intense gaze, and Marta turns and walks away before she can linger, knowing he’s still watching her go. 

Heartbeat or not, Marta knows better than to rely on Ransom. Ransom is on Ransom’s side, always, and warped curiosity is not the same as being reliable, as being trustworthy. Marta has to remember that, she has to prepare for the day that her threats and physical abilities will no longer keep him in check and she’ll have to act. Whatever that ends up meaning. 

Marta has to hang on to the memory of him following her around town, of the smell of his hands on her medical bag, because if she doesn't, she'll start to think on the way he hadn't run away when Walt shot her with the arrow, the desperate press of his hands against the gaping wound in her body, how he’d looked at her with awe in the house afterwards. 

But it doesn’t matter, because she _cannot trust Ransom._

Marta holds that in her head, and goes upstairs to Harlan’s attic office, where for once, she cannot hear the sounds of Harlan typing away, even though she knows he’s there.

“Harlan?” she says, knocking softly at the door. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, of course,” Harlan says, attempting for his usual cheer, but it’s strained, and when she comes in, the exhaustion in his face is clear.

“Are you all right?” Marta asks gently.

Harlan hesitates, and then says with a heavy sigh, “No. No, not really.” He turns to look at Marta, with his weary eyes, and says, “What a fucking mess this all is.”

“Yeah,” Marta agrees. “It is a fucking mess.”

She uses the profanity deliberately, and succeeds at making Harlan smile, if even for a moment. He looks at her and asks, “But I should ask how you are doing, Marta—it’s quite a lot of responsibility being put on your shoulders.”

Marta knows that’s true, but she also knows there’s nothing to be done about it. “I can manage,” she says, before adding next, “I know you wanted time to work, but I wanted you to know--the local witch agreed to come over, hear us out. He’ll be coming at noon with his apprentice...”

“He?” Harlan asks, confused. “I thought you said this was a witch--”

Marta is momentarily bewildered by his confusion. “Of course it is. James Elliott, he’s the head witch in town.”

“Shouldn’t that be warlock, instead?” Harlan asks. 

And then that seems clear, “Oh, no, that’s just fiction. It’s only witches and wizards, and the differences are in terms of the magic, not the gender,” Marta explains, thinking that she should probably explain this to Fran and to Ransom as well. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, all the nonsense humans think is true from movies and books. 

Harlan, at least, looks entertained now. “How fascinating,” he says. “So I suppose witches’ magic is less powerful?”

Marta blanches. “Please don’t say that in front of them,” she says quickly, and Harlan just laughs, which is not reassuring. “No, it’s like...witches are like your general doctors you see for checkups, and wizards are like...the surgeon that gets called in when you need an operation.” There’s quite a lot more to it than that, but that seems like the easiest and least offensive way to explain it to a human. 

“Hmm,” Harlan says, and then chuckles to himself. “Well, I suppose we’ll hear all about it tomorrow.”

*

It’s snowing heavily when the witches arrive, but Marta meets them outside on the drive anyway. As her mother has cautioned, there is a protocol to these things. 

James Elliott is a handsome man with a crooked smile, who smells sharply of magic and herbs. There’s a white man behind him, who he introduces as “Mike Wagner, my apprentice.”

Wagner bobs his head. “Hi,” he says shyly, waving his hand in greeting. 

“Hello,” Marta says, hoping they can’t see her nerves--witches don’t have quite the same sharp senses as werewolves, she knows, but they have their own ways of knowing things. She takes a breath of cold winter air before starting the proper greeting, saying carefully, “We welcome you to our home, and swear that we mean you no harm on this day.”

Elliott smiles a little, but bows his head in acknowledgement before reciting the correct response. “We accept your invitation, and we also swear we mean you no harm on this day.”

Marta exhales a little in relief now that that’s done--she didn’t honestly think this part would go wrong, but with the way things have gone recently, she can’t be too careful. “Please,” she says, gesturing at the front door, “Come inside where it’s warm, and you can meet everyone.”

“Even Harlan Thrombey?” Wagner asks, eagerly. 

Elliott gives him a side-glance and murmurs, clearly unsurprised, “Please keep the fanboying to a minimum, we’re supposed to be here as professionals.”

“No promises,” Wagner says, a joyful grin appearing on his face now. 

Hiding her smile, and hopeful that this might actually be easier than she’d thought, Marta leads them both to the house.


End file.
